


Alla Ævi

by adarbitrium



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Anniversary, Bath Sex, Blindfolds, Brother-Sister Relationships, Dancing, Eivor Has a Praise Kink, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Disaster Eivor (Assassin's Creed), Gratuitous Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Nightmares, Old Norse, Picnics, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Secret Relationship, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers, Stargazing, Tags May Change, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adarbitrium/pseuds/adarbitrium
Summary: A series of oneshots set before, during and after the main story.Thirteenth chapter -Astral- of or relating to the stars.“My mother… she used to call me her moon,” she starts softly. Randvi smiles at her, and Eivor knows that she won’t press her if she doesn’t want to say more, that she’ll give her space if she needs it. “She said that the moon and the stars were in love, and the stars would only shine for her. As if the sole purpose of their existence was to use their light to guide the moon back to them. Back home.” Eivor’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest, and she sighs, long and low in her throat.OR;They stargaze. Feels ensue.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 136
Kudos: 526





	1. Selcouth

**Author's Note:**

> _alla ævi_ \- for all time, forever.  
>    
> So I found [this](https://shannaraisles.tumblr.com/post/178246864645/writing-challenge-prompt-list) prompt list on Tumblr and I just thought it was neat. This definitely won't be a daily, but perhaps a weekly series of shorter and longer chapters? Also won't be in chronological or in any other sort of order cause I'm chaotic like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _selcouth_ \- unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful.

Eivor wakes to the feel of smooth sheets on bare skin, her legs aching pleasantly when she stretches them. She should be cold, if she is as bare as she thinks she is. She isn’t, though. Her body is warm, except for her toes that peek out from under the linen. All of this, though, is merely a fleeting thought. As soon as her eyes open and reach the source of warmth, her drowsy train of thought is derailed and entirely replaced. The split second where everything comes back feels like a lifetime.

Soft lips and hands. Gentle touches becoming something more, exploring and mapping out an array of patterns over curves and planes. Various states of breathing, whether it be a heave or a gasp or a moan, resounding in the bedchamber stand out as the primary noises. Passion. Euphoria. She lays still for a moment more, savoring the weight of Randvi’s head on her chest. All of her senses are focused. She can hear and feel Randvi’s breathing. A smile grows on her face at the sight of an absolute tousled mess of red hair, barely visible pink lips peeking out from underneath. The lips are parted and exhaling deep, even breaths, belonging to a warm body that will still be asleep for the foreseeable future.

She risks a light brush of fingertips down her face, from her brow to her jaw, tracing her features like seeing them simply wasn’t enough. And it isn’t. She’s beautiful, even after a night of lovemaking that left them both sweaty and shrugging off sheets like they were on fire. But now she looks serene, tranquil, and her skin is a faint tint of golden where pale sunlight from high above lands; a dazzling contrast to the green sheets they’re wrapped in. Eivor’s fingers trip over freckles and birthmarks and find themselves at Randvi’s smooth shoulder. Then her hand ventures further and her fingertips travel to the dip in her spine. Her hand flies back when Randvi makes a low, gravelly sound. Eivor waits. Hesitant. But the redhead licks at her bottom lip before sighing, shifting a bit and staying perfectly asleep.

It still feels like some kind of fever dream. If Eivor didn’t know better, she’d think she is hallucinating. Moments like this; perfect, gentle moments of utter contentment, of feeling loved and appreciated (and if she thinks about last night, _worshipped_ ) don’t happen to her. Not anymore. They feel strange. She hasn’t been anybody’s first choice in a long time. Styrbjorn had Sigurd. Sigurd had the clan. Randvi had Sigurd. Or so she thought.

The road that led them here had been bumpy, but there’s no question that it was worth it. She looks down at her lover, still sleeping. She wants to remember everything about this moment more than she wants to remember anything in her life.

Just when she closes her eyes and is about to drift back to sleep, the body curled against her stirs and hands start to dance across her cheeks and down her neck, stopping at her shoulders. She leans into the warmth. Heated lips start at her neck and make their way up, each kiss sloppier than the last. Eivor tries to focus on the soft sheets and enjoy the bed, but Randvi’s too distracting now. Before long, her eyes flutter open as the rest of her comes awake.

“Morning,” Randvi’s voice is tender and slightly rough with sleep, making the drengr’s heart ache in her chest; a good kind of ache, like having too much affection to contain. Just the sound of it makes her heart do a flip or two and she mentally laughs at herself, feeling like a foolish maiden for being so damn in love with this woman. She reaches up to run her hand along Randvi’s face, turning her head to leave a featherlight kiss on her forehead. Something feels different this morning. _Closer_. More _free_. They might have slept together plenty of time before, but this is the first time they had woken up naked in each other’s arms, with no need for rushed goodbyes and no need for hiding. It’s unusual. They hadn’t explicitly told anyone about this yet, aside from Sigurd, of course. As Jarl, there were too many eyes on Eivor already, it felt nice to have something private, but without the need and pressure to be private.

Eivor untangles herself enough to look at her properly, lifting a hand lazily to brush some of Randvi’s hair away from her eyes before gently cupping her face in her palm. “Is that how you are going to wake me up every day?”

“I can be convinced.”

Her hand slides down to run lightly along Randvi’s side, finger tracing absent-minded patterns on her skin until it reaches the sheet that pools at her waist. Now her touch is soft, almost hesitant, nothing like the way she had touched her the night before. Seeing the goosebumps spreading in the wake of her attention, a shiver runs down her spine. She pulls her into a kiss. A soft one. Not the same as the heat and passion of the night. No, this is softer, almost an afterthought, gentle in a way that neither of them seem to be entirely used to being kissed in.

She’s opening her mouth to say something when Randvi chitters, “You snore like a troll, you know.”

“I do _not_!” the blonde gapes and pulls back dramatically, feeling stung.

“You most certainly do,” Randvi reassures with an innocent bat of her eyelashes and giggles. It’s a lazy, whimsical sound that matches well with the hazy yellow, early-morning light streaming into the longhouse through the wooden beams. “Though it’s nothing to be embarrassed about!”

Although Eivor feels heat creeping up her face in swirls of blooming red, she cannot help but laugh along with her.

“As if _you_ have any right to complain about snoring when _you_ steal all the blankets,” she retorts.

“That is _not_ true!” Randvi counters, swatting Eivor’s arm lightly.

“Oh, _it is_ , my feet are freezing,” she retaliates, pressing said cold feet to Randvi’s legs, smirking when she yelps at the uncomfortable contact.

“Get those icicles away from me before I shove you off the bed,” she exclaims, eye snapping wide awake from the frosty touch. She tries to push the drengr away, but strong legs wrap around her own as Eivor pulls her body flush against her, briefly bumping their noses together before kissing her again. Her lips are soft, criminally soft for so early in the morning, and she presses so gently, so _sweetly_ against Randvi’s lips that she practically melts into the touch. With a rather pleased hum, Randvi returns the kiss, matching Eivor’s slow, tender pace. 

The drengr can feel her cheeks heating up again when she leans back away a moment later, warmth flooding her body. Not just want and desire, though there’s certainly a helping of those as well. But just sheer blooming happiness, she feels content and good and _loved_. She could get used to this. She will. She looks away for a moment, because looking at her is like looking at all-bright seen Sól herself and Eivor can feel herself burning up by the second.

Not that Randvi lets her look away.

There’s a hand gently sliding up against the back of her neck, turning her head back with a gentle press, guiding her back to Randvi. Guiding her back home.


	2. Basorexia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times Randvi wanted to kiss Eivor. And one time she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _basorexia_ \- the overwhelming desire to kiss.

**1.**

“Well, well! The feeder-of-ravens returns. And not half dead,” Randvi says when she catches sight of Eivor approaching from the docks and tries to keep her tone even. “We thought we had lost you, Eivor. For good this time.”

And she did think that. While she was gone, the possibility of losing Eivor invaded her mind night and night again. Because really, every day the drengr spent away from Fornburg left an Eivor-shaped hole in her life.

“A warm welcome as always, Randvi,” the Wolf-Kissed greets her and holds out her hand. Randvi moves forward, the movement instinctual as she grabs her arm. She doesn’t feel the biting cold anymore, not really, but she does feel the warmth of Eivor’s breath for a fleeting second and that’s enough to send heat rushing down her body. She missed her comforting presence, she missed seeing her train with the other raiders, she missed running errands with her, she missed her drunk blabbering during feasts and her even drunker flyting. She missed sharing smiles with her and just looking at her. She wants to pull her in and kiss her ardently for every second she has missed her. She just wants to kiss her, just one time, to see what it would be like. To see if everything would fall into place after, if Eivor would kiss her back.

“You look like reddened shit. What happened?” She inquires instead, taking in the sight of the weary warrior in front of her.

“Nothing to crow about, except to say the men who delayed us are dead. And how are you?”

“Well enough,” she answers, and at least it’s not a complete lie. “Though I have spent many tiresome days calming the rages of our king. He’s not happy with you.”

“I expected as much. And what of Sigurd? Has he returned from his raids?”

Hearing the name of her husband snaps Randvi back to reality, the warmth she felt moments ago now quickly seeping out of her bones. “My husband should be home today. The last we heard, he was approaching Stavanger.”

“Good to hear. We have need of his courage.”

Good to hear, indeed.

“Sigurd will not save you from his father’s wrath, Eivor. You should know that by now,” Dag interrupts as he passes by.

“Did your raid not go as planned?” she implores then, furrowing her brows in worry.

“They rarely go as planned, but we killed many of Kjotve’s warriors. And there was this…” Eivor said as she reached behind her back. “My father’s axe among the dead.”

“Ah! After so many years. You should take it to Gunnar. He will give it back its edge.”

“Good idea. After I see our king.”

“That I do not advise, not yet. He’s meeting with a messenger from the North.”

“I can wait…”

She notices Eivor’s face softening as she gets lost in her thoughts for a moment. Her expression turns melancholy, brows furrowed in contemplation and Randvi’s eyes are once again drawn to her lips as the corners of her mouth quirk down. She wants to reach out and touch, to take her face in her hands. Her eyes seem bluer in the golden light of the late afternoon, shining with somber affection and longing, and for a moment she wishes that Eivor would look at her so she could pretend it’s directed at her. Randvi lets her hands fall to her sides and flexes her fingers as if she wants to move but has no idea how. “A cloud hangs over you. Is something wrong?” she asks. Over the long winters, she had learned how to read her like a book.

“Seeing my father’s axe after seventeen winters… it stirred something in me. A feeling I have not had since… since the day he was killed. Since the day I got this,” Eivor replies as she cranes her neck to the side, flashing her scar.

“Memories of past agonies. Of sadness and pain.”

Feelings that Randvi herself knows all too well.

“I should speak with Valka. She could help me make sense of my… my feelings.”

Maybe Randvi should see Valka too. But she has made sense of her feelings many moons ago. She’s past the point of chiding herself for missing her sister-in-law more after a few short weeks than her husband who’s been gone for nearly two winters. And questioning why that is so. She tried to force herself and find a warm body, like her sister had said in her letter, just to take her mind off of her. She would consider it for a split second and then her thoughts would trail back. Back to Eivor.

“Take your time getting settled,” she says finally, turning to leave before she could say something she really should _not_ say. “I will see you at the longhouse.”

**2.**

Leaning against the longhouse, Randvi watches as Eivor play-fights with Mouse, the children around them cheering and sparring them on. She still has her reservations about the beast, a _wolf_ —by Thor’s Hammer… but the kids love her and she can definitely prove useful around the settlement, fending off other predators and making marauders turn on their heels before they even get the idea of targeting Ravensthorpe.

But it’s still a _wolf_ , gods be damned, and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least slightly concerned about the way the wolf and the Wolf-Kissed are rolling around in the dirt. Mouse is growling and biting at Eivor’s forearm, her bracers more than capable of protecting her from the playful snapping of sharp teeth, while the drengr pulls and tugs at the long white fur covering the belly of the beast. Knud is climbing up Eivor’s back, trying to hold her back, clearly siding with Mouse in this fight. 

Seeing Eivor with children always sends a shiver down her spine. The fact that this mighty drengr is amazing with the little ones is something that never ceases to amaze her. In the beginning, when they barely knew each other, it didn’t make sense to her. So, naturally, she had to ask about it. Despite Styrbjorn treating her more or less like a daughter and accepting her into his family, her childhood hadn’t been the best. Eivor had told her she wanted to make sure that no child ever felt the same loneliness she felt at the time, having no one to turn to aside from her brother. It was yet another thing that had endlessly endeared the warrior to her.

For a second, her eye catches Eivor’s icy blues as she stands up triumphantly, hands raised in victory and head thrown back in laughter. In that moment, Randvi wants to walk up to her and kiss her so badly it’s like her entire body starts expanding with the need to move, to grab her face and press their lips together. She never wanted to experience someone so fully, all to herself. She’s never felt so greedy.

A whirr of emotions runs through her and they quickly become harder to keep under control. She had always wanted children, but that desire had turned into a sense of duty after her marriage to Sigurd, with no purpose other than to provide an heir for the clan. But now… She looks at the other woman; Sylvi hanging from her right arm, Eira from the other as she lifts them easily from the ground, trying to shake them off. Then she looks at her face, and the same rush runs through her, only more intense.

And there’s love, yes, there’s so much of it.

**3.**

“Silence, both of you!” Randvi yells at the two fools who have been arguing endlessly for a while now, her patience wearing thinner by the minute.

“Randvi, I demand that this matter be settled here and now,” Rowan rebuts.

“Have patience, Rowan. There is a time and place for such disputes,” she tries again. Then she sees the drengr entering the longhouse and lets out a sigh of relief. “Eivor, thank Tyr.” Maybe she’ll finally be able to get back to her work without screaming echoing through the wooden walls.

“I heard shouting, is something wrong?”

“Holger robbed me! And I demand he be punished!” the horse-keeper interjects.

“Ah! Robbed is a pointed word. Does the deer rob the stream when she takes a drink? Does a cow rob a field as it crops on sweet grass?” Holger argues, offended by the accusation.

Randvi rolls her eyes. “Eivor, this matter requires sensitive judgement. Will you…?”

“Of course,” she replies after a moment of hesitation. “From the beginning, please—“

“Well, now! There is no excuse too small, I see… nothing to keep you from coveting that seat, is there?” Dag scoffs as he steps forward from where he was standing and observing the quarrel.

Randvi frowns. Someday even Dag will see that Eivor would be a great leader, she’s sure of it, far better than Sigurd. Her husband’s heart is in the right place, but his elusive quest for something more, for something greater tends to blind him. Eivor is here. Eivor is always here for the people and when she’s gone, she’s gone to secure alliances for the clan and bring back riches so that they can expand and thrive.

“In Sigurd’s absence, who has better claim to oversee these disputes?”

“You might leave them to work it out for themselves. But that would mean… letting go, would it not?” Dag spits as he turns to leave.

“Please start again. Tell me what has happened.”

Randvi can see the frustration on the drengr’s face. She wishes she could tell her that she has every right to sit in that seat. There are _so many_ things she wishes she could tell her, but nowhere seems to be the right place, never seems to be the right time. Watching her preside over the matter, Randvi only grows more sure in her conviction that Eivor is meant to be a leader. She is poised and careful and thinks things through when the situation calls for it. She is reliable, dependable and everything Sigurd can’t be regardless of how much his father had tried to teach him what it meant to be a Jarl.

Randvi knows that she’s staring by now—mercifully, everyone else is too preoccupied with the argument to notice—but sitting on the throne Eivor looks… not like a different person, but so new all the same. It knocks the breath out of her lungs. She doesn’t know where any of this is coming from all of a sudden, but she wants to commit the sight to memory. She loses herself in another reality for a minute, one where Rowan and Holger are arguing far, far away from here and it’s just the two of them in the longhouse and she sits in Eivor’s lap instead, kissing her, getting to feel those soft lips smile against her own. She wants to kiss her breathless, wants to feel those strong arms around her and wants to hold her hands. She wants her.

**4.**

Eivor had insisted that this wasn’t necessary, that she was fine and there was nothing some ale and a good night’s sleep won’t cure, but Randvi wouldn’t hear of it. She was more than aware of how often in the past Eivor was left to fend for herself when she was injured—something she had learned not long after meeting her; a hunt going wrong and her insisting on patching up her own injuries after a bear proved to be stronger than her for once—and she wasn’t about to let her endure that again.

So Randvi sits cross-legged on the bed next to the half-naked drengr, damp cloth in one hand, a bowl of warm salt-water in the other. She examines each cut and dark mark as she runs the cloth over her skin. The wounds aren’t as bad as she thought they would be, mostly just bruises that would indeed heal in no time. She can’t help but notice the way her muscles twitch when Randvi touches a sensitive spot, and her _hands_ —her eyes linger on her calloused hands and long fingers as she wipes away the dried blood and dirt, softly and with much care.

Her breath hitches when her eyes land on Eivor’s middle, revealing a shallow, but still bleeding wound from Dag’s axe that she hadn’t noticed before. “Hold on,” she says as she wets the cloth once again and runs it over the gash, mumbling an apology every time Eivor winces in pain. The urge to kiss her pain away is almost too strong. But this is nor the time, nor the place to think such thoughts. But nevertheless, the thought persists. It grows a body of its own and Randvi knows it will keep her up all night.

It takes a while, but when the wound is finally bandaged up, Randvi moves onto the small cuts and bruises over Eivor’s face, wiping away the dirt and the blood and disinfecting even the smallest grazes she can find. “You’ll be fine,” she reassures, giving Eivor’s hand a brief squeeze before she goes to stand. She doesn’t get far. Stopped by a hand that desperately latches onto her wrist and a pleading noise that escapes the back Eivor’s throat.

“I am not going anywhere,” Randvi leans down, gently caressing Eivor’s face with her palm and offering a soft, comforting smile as the blonde leans into her touch. “I just have to throw this away.” Reluctantly, the fingers around her wrist loosen up.

“I killed him,” she blurts out when Randvi settles back on the bed, her voice shaky and quivering. “I—”

“Do not blame yourself,” Randvi says, cupping Eivor’s face with her palms and coaxing the younger woman to look at her so she can’t hide the tears streaking down her face. She knew the thought would creep up in her mind and she wants to shut it down before it can take root. “It is done now. He gave you no choice.”

“I should have walked away…”

Randvi squeezes her hand again, a bit tighter this time to stop it from trembling. Eivor squeezes back.

“Will you stay a while?”

Randvi thinks she's never seen her so fragile and hurt.

“Of course.”

**+1**

„What was that…?”

Gods damn it, she shouldn't have kissed her. What was she thinking? The stunned look is enough to tell her what she needs to know. „Oh, no, I am… I am sorry. I shouldn’t have. I got away from myself.”

She shouldn’t have kissed her. It was stupid and irresponsible and one of the best things that has ever happened in her life.

„No need to apologize.”

Randvi barely registers the words, her mind desperately trying to come up with an explanation, an excuse, asking the gods to open up the ground so it can swallow her whole and save her from the embarrassment. „Sigurd is your brother and I… I have put you in a very difficult position. The heart does not do politics like the head.”

„It may be the mead, it may be the air. But there is no need to apologize,” Eivor repeats.

Randvi laughs. She really shouldn't have kissed her, but she did and she cherished every single fucking second of it. „I am sober enough. But the truth of it is… I have felt this way for some time now,” she admits and feels the weight of mountains roll down her shoulders. “I care for you, Eivor.” Perhaps there is no point in denying the obvious anymore—even if she knows she is her sister-in-law, that she is endlessly loyal to her brother, that she would never be the type of woman she’d want… She had always been hopeful.

„That is… comforting to hear. I have long felt the same way. But I banished the thought that it would ever happen.”

Had she... had she heard that right? The words are still ringing out in the open air between them as a strange elation takes hold in her. Hope begins to bloom in her chest, desperate and wild and terrifying. Had she really just said…?

„Many times I wished to tell you. Wished to say what was in my heart and what I desired,” she confesses, unable to stop the words tumbling from her lips as she steps across the small distance between them. “But duty kept me from it…”

„Say all you like.”

Gods, the words send a shiver down her spine and it’s all the encouragement she needs. „Today has meant so much. We rode, we fought, we drank, we laughed. You showed me your world. Not in words, but deeds.” And she will always be grateful for that. Grateful for the fact that Eivor noticed how unhappy she was, being confined to the alliance room for days on end.

„Deeds are more direct than words.”

And then Eivor kisses her and everything falls into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me thinking about Randvi seeing Eivor playing with children: Good shit, that's some good shit right there.


	3. Meriggiare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s lightning zapping through her veins and when Randvi kisses her like this she can feel it in hers too. It's moments like these, moments when she steals her breath from her body that she realizes spending eternity with her wouldn’t be long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _meriggiare_ \- to rest at noon, more likely in a shady spot outdoors

The midday sunlight keeps getting interrupted by passing clouds. Birds sing somewhere in the distance, the calm breeze claiming any noise away and hushing it. Eivor thinks it’s a shame that they can’t see or hear the river from this angle, blocked by shrubbery and the hills beyond, ever waxing and waning. It's idyllic, alone in a bright clearing, their only company are their grazing horses, Sýnin keeping watch above them and the hum of invisible bugs. They’re not far from Ravensthorpe, but far enough that nobody will accidentally stumble upon them. She is leaning back against the trunk of an old, solitary oak tree; boots off, armor off, breeches rolled up. She feels content, with her lover leaning against her chest, her fingertips trailing up Eivor’s arms that are locked around her in a tender embrace. Randvi looks painfully beautiful and serene under the shade of the tree, humming a tune Eivor isn't familiar with as small beams of light peek through the leaves, shining on her face. The rays play on her skin, showing off her features and Eivor’s muscles twitch in anticipation, a complacent smile pulling at her lips. She wants to move and kiss her and—

“May I ask you something?” Randvi says, shifting in her arms to look up at her.

Eivor relaxes back against the trunk. “Anything.”

“When did you know?” the redhead asks, letting her fingers skim over each rune on the arms around her.

“Know what?”

“ _Know_ ,” she urges. “That you were _deeply_ , _hopelessly_ and _madly_ in love with me?” Randvi clarifies with a smile, dramatically emphasizing each adjective.

Every word she said is true, but Eivor laughs, trying to decide if the question is serious or not, but the inquisitive stare she receives tells her that it is. She presses her lips into a tight, thin line. Somehow this isn’t something they’ve talked about before, not in detail. Eivor feels this is the kind of conversation that’s better reserved for late nights, lying in bed, enveloped in each other and shrouded in darkness. It’s much, much harder to bring it up in the warm light of noontime. But Randvi’s face is patient and curious, and Eivor finds that as much as she doesn’t want to say these things out loud in the golden light of the day, she wants her to know.

“I have always known.”

“Liar,” Randvi smirks and pinches her arm playfully. Her voice is light and teasing and Eivor rolls her eyes. Now that they’re about to talk about it, she does actually want her to understand.

“No, I’m serious,” she says, turning her head to look her in the eye. “Maybe I didn’t realize it, but I think it was instant for me.” Her hands stop playing with the hem of Randvi’s tunic, noticing the way she is biting her lips, concentrating. Eivor isn’t quite sure when _exactly_ it happened. Perhaps it had started when her and her father had first visited Fornburg upon Styrbjorn’s invitation and she saw how utterly out of place she looked, yet still held her head high as they were being guided around the settlement. At least, something had sparked then. Even though she had still been wary of her, unable to ignore the fear that her arrival will impact her close relationship with her brother and that things will, somehow, change. Of course, she hadn’t actually been _in love_ with her then, just intrigued. Intrigued by this woman who was nothing like the meek, unassuming and pliant individual she expected. And who was promised to marry her brother. Friendship had followed, and then love, though the exact moment remains hard to pinpoint. She swallows against the sudden tightness in her throat and blinks hard. “I still remember that night we stayed up talking and drinking, not long after your arrival, after the feast…” Eivor laughs at the memory. “Everyone had already left or they were passed out from the mead. Neither of us wanted to quit talking, we were too stubborn and drunk to admit how tired we were. That’s all it was. Just as simple as that. No one has ever—” The corner of Eivor’s mouth pulls into a soft smile. “No one has ever cared about the things I had to say, not if it was about anything other than raiding or the affairs of the clan. If it was about _me_.” She brushes her fingers across her cheek. Randvi offers her a hand, and she takes it, letting her squeeze comfort into her palm. “I was already drawn to you… I liked that you didn’t take shit from anybody; not Styrbjorn, not Sigurd, not me… that you didn’t care what the clan thinks of you, the way you just commanded respect, but that night… I realized I cared for you, maybe more than I should have.” She huffs a shaky chuckle more at herself than anything, just to relieve some of the sudden nervousness throbbing in her veins. She takes a deep breath and looks up again, giving Randvi the slightest of smiles. She can do this. She needs to do this. “I told myself that maybe this is what real friendship feels like and I just didn’t know it before.” Eivor furrows her brow. “But the day of the wedding… I wanted to run. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to just stand there and watch and _be happy_ for my brother and you… you looked beautiful. That’s when I knew I was in love with you.” She pauses for a moment before continuing, Randvi’s hand giving her arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “I tried to fight it. I tried to fight it _so_ hard, but you have made it easy. To love you… You did that, effortlessly. You… do that. Every day. You are kind, you care about others around you, you put others before you, maybe even a bit too much. But you are also strong and brave, and the smartest person I know—”

Randvi kisses her then, the kind of kiss that proves passion doesn’t have to be rough or wild or desperate, with such sweet and tender longing that Eivor can only shiver at her touch, undone by both emotion and physical sensation. It feels good to have told her all that. She sighs into the kiss, her arms twisting around her waist to bring her closer; always to bring her closer. There’s lightning zapping through her veins and when Randvi kisses her like this she can feel it in hers too. It's moments like these, moments when she steals her breath from her body that she realizes spending eternity with her wouldn’t be long enough.

Throwing one leg over Eivor, Randvi straddles her hips, smiling so widely into their kiss they're forced to break it.

“What about you? When did you know?” Eivor asks after taking a steadying breath and settles her arms around her waist. She has to know now.

Randvi dips forward for another quick peck before returning to her kneeling position over the drengr, placing her hands flat against the blonde’s chest. “I was in awe of you, Eivor. Since the day I met you. The way you looked out for your clan. Then the way you looked out for me…” She takes her hand, brings it to her lips and kisses her palm, curling her fingers around it. “That awe never left. It transformed into friendship and I was honored that you wanted to be my friend. I was honored when you confided in me. When you told me about your parents. I valued and I treasured our friendship. You became the one person I wanted to talk to when I was happy and the one person I wanted to be around when I was sorrowful. And just like the awe, that friendship never left… it transformed again. Into love,” she continues, her eyes never leaving Eivor’s, answering her smile with a heartfelt one of her own. “There were so many times when I realized I loved you. And every time it threw me off guard,” she continues, putting a grounding hand on the back of her neck, her thumb drawing small circles against the skin. “I knew I loved you when time and time again, you would ask me how I was. Because you cared. I knew I loved you when I first saw you injured. You were hurting and I wanted to take the pain from you. I knew I loved you when I saw you teaching the children how to fletch arrows. I knew I loved you when I saw the fire in your eyes as you prepared for raids. And that love never left either, it only grew. I knew that there would never be anyone else. I just wanted to have you, in any way I could. It tore my heart to pieces.”

This time Eivor surges forward to kiss her because she can’t not be kissing her right now. This beautiful, wonderful woman who has apparently loved her back for many winters. Her heart aches for the time they wasted, but she’s also not sure this could’ve happened earlier. It would’ve been a horrible shame to have started something with her, only for it to fall apart. Eivor loves her fiercely, more than she has ever loved anyone else in her entire life, more than she thought was physically possible.

“I love you,” she whispers the second their lips part.

Randvi dips her forehead against hers, her hands trailing down her arms to twine their fingers together once more. “I love you.”

Eivor trails soft, wet kisses across her cheek and along her jaw, over her chin and across the bridge of her nose. “I love you,” she says again, nudging the words into her skin, kissing them into her forehead and her temples, her eyelids and her earlobes, until she’s trembling under the weight the them. Eivor lives for these moments. The ones where she forgets that _this_ should and could never be, forgets everything outside the comfort of their bodies pressing together and their lips sliding against each other’s in a dance that could change any second. They’re too far and few between. But if she gets to remember one thing when she’s far, far away from her, she wants this: The flush in Randvi’s cheeks as she clutches her close and pulls her in, and in, and in, swallowing a moan when she bites her lip, because there’s so much happiness in it, in all the time they spend together, even if it’s not enough, even if could never be enough; the love between them sparkling like the high-noon sunlight.

All the love, love, love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I'm a big sap.


	4. Sweven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A part of her knows that this is just a dream, dream versions of themselves acting on a discarnate pane of existence, but she feels so completely made of flesh in this second, it’s hard to remember that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _sweven_ \- a dream, vision.

The dreams start the day she first lays eyes on her on the docks. They are hazy in the beginning, she can’t quite make out that it’s _her_ , but she has a feeling. It’s nothing more than some draumskrok, her simply appearing in Randvi’s dreams, not doing much. They are the kind of dreams that she often forgets as soon as she wakes up. But each day they become more and more intense. To the point that she is ashamed that the drengr comes into her mind so often, and she tries to push it away, to think of someone else, something else, anything else. But it seems nothing is more entrancing to her subconscious than the Wolf-Kissed.

Randvi doesn’t always remember her dreams. During her first few moons in Fornburg, there are times she wakes up in a blind panic, heartbeat racing, but the details shrink and scatter like shadows in the candlelight until all she’s left with is the foggy memory of a nightmare and the lingering echo of a coarse, but warm voice. Whatever haunts her dreams, she remembers only a sensation of staring into icy eyes. And she thinks of _her_. She touches a still shaking hand to her face, and can’t remember why she’s crying.

Other times Randvi dreams in flashes: flame and heat and the color blue, all stark in the darkness. Her skin is too tight for her body and she can feel a burning rope in the pit of her stomach. The rope becomes a knot and she can feel it pulling tighter and tighter until the fire within her starts to grow, starts to spread and, Gods, she’s burning under thick ice, she’s drowning and wants to explode under the pressure, and she’s close, so close.

Her dreams turn more intimate when she starts spending more time with _her_ after her husband leaves, seeking out her company every time she gets the chance. It’s well past miðnótt when a thought makes her shoot up from the bed, almost knocking over the candle by her side. Over the last few days, she’d dreamt of nothing else but _her_. Not dreams one typically has about a friend or a sister-in-law. No, dreams that make her wake up. An indulgence of immoral fantasies she can’t keep at bay. Chest heaving, loose tendrils of hair sticking to her forehead and the nape of her neck. She clutches her breast, feeling her heart hammering, her blood bubbling, as if she’s been holding her breath.

It’s only once she has taken a few deep breaths that she notices the heady smell of her own desire and the slickness between her legs. Aroused but confused, she rolls over and tries to fall back asleep. Tries to ignore the tension in her belly. The bone-deep hunger in her soul.

Eivor.

* * *

She leans against the desk, fingers massaging her temples, trying to bury herself in her work. She is so, so tired and her bed calls out to her in the dim moonlight. She wants to fight it, but she realizes that she can’t stay awake forever and eventually has to face _her_ and her own desires again. So, she lies down and closes her eyes. Quickly, she falls asleep and tries to hold on to the part of herself she can control even when wandering through dreams.

Seconds pass and she lets her hand drift across the muscles of Eivor’s abdomen, hard and soft at the same time, and so intoxicating. She can’t believe how beautiful her skin feels under her fingers, she moves her lips forward, wanting to feel her beneath her mouth, tempted to know what she tastes like. She wonders if it’s similar to her scent, earthy, woodsy, a hint of smoke and something faint under all that, like the first sip of honey-mead, when you think it’s going to be sweet and it is for a moment but then it has a burning chase and you’re left confused as to the flavor in your mouth.

She hums in the back of her throat as she tastes her, her hand slipping further down her body until her fingers stop just above her belt. Could she? Would it be wrong? _Of course it would be_ —No, she reassures herself, it’s just a dream, no one would know and no one would care. It’s just a dream, but she has to ask herself. She lets her fingers dwell there, not waiting for the answer, relishing in the feel of her warm skin, her blunt nails dragging back across the tattoos that cover her body. The ghost of Eivor shifts slightly beneath her touch, a sharp intake of breath, as Randvi’s fingers slip between her legs, but she can barely control her own movements with her clouded mind.

She’s touching her everywhere now, exhilarated, drunk on the idea. She wants her to come undone in her hands, feel her whole body shake before her, to know that she can do this to her. She takes a shaky breath, before moving her hand back to her. She sinks one, two fingers inside her and it’s unlike anything she’d imagined before, letting herself explore her, while her other hand caresses her scarred cheek, lips planting gentle kisses all over her face. She is so hot and heavy, Randvi can feel her splintering around her. She feels her giving a shuddering sigh, a little noise from the back of her throat, followed by a low growl.

She lets her thumb slide up and down for a while, but it’s stopped when a strong hand grips around her wrist, pulling her hand upwards. The drengr steers her hand up until it’s up near her face. Randvi revels in her heated breath rushing across her skin in shorts pants, and then her lips are brushing across the heel of her palm, just a shadow, but then again harder with just a touch of her tongue. Her heart thunders in her chest, she rubs her thighs together in hopes that the friction would reduce the ache settling between them. She has to stop her eyes rolling back into her head as she runs the flat of her tongue from the heel of her hand, up over her middle and index fingers. She guides her hand back down between her legs, the lack of friction must have been painful, her mind supplies before the thought completely flees and instead she finds herself consumed by how strong her hand is compared to her own.

Her breath comes in shorter bursts, the tiniest, dirtiest vocalizations leaving her mouth as Randvi twists her wrist every couple of strokes. Her hips start to shift with their movements, almost shuddering back and forth as the rhythm slowly speeds up. She tries to match the strokes, but can’t keep pace, not when the redhead sinks her teeth into the flesh joining her shoulder and neck. Her whole body tenses and Randvi feels her coming undone, her mouth sealed on her skin. She keeps her hand stroking as her release spills across her fingers, slower, with more sensuality and intimacy than she realizes could be in this moment.

The dream fades into nothingness, sleep calling her back to its embrace.

* * *

The dreams keep coming. Stronger and more vivid each night. Randvi keeps her face pressed into the pillow for the fear of the noises she might make. Face red with shame, she presses her sticky thighs together, refusing to let her hands drift below the blankets.

That night, the dream-shadow of Eivor fucks her from behind with her fingers, hard and fast, her taller frame curled over hers so that she’s inside and outside and everywhere at once. One hand is curled around her neck and her mouth is right by her ear, her breath like a fiery kiss of Surtr over her cheek. She grunts, pulling Randvi harder against her own body as she tightens her other hand around her throat. She can hardly breathe, but the lack of air only enhances the sensation. She likes it when it hurts a little. The hand on her throat snakes down her front, between her legs to where her fingers are pulling in and out, to where she is sopping wet with desire. Randvi’s glad she can’t see her face when she finds her swollen center, and starts to move feverishly as if she had been charred by the flaming pits of Muspelheim, because she thinks this time she might actually break, might actually combust—Only nothing happens. It never does.

She wakes up and screams soundlessly into her pillow.

* * *

She’s well past shame now. Curled up on the bed in the afternoon sunlight, Randvi waits until she hears the last of the raiders leave the longhouse below. All the pent up emotions–desire, lust, frustration–that have been plaguing her since she first saw _her_ are like molten balls of fire in her belly and if she doesn’t do something about them right now she thinks she might go mad. She thought talking about it would help ease her mind, but the dreams continue even after sending several letters to her sister, the only one she can truly confide in about such predicament.

Quiet as a hushed thought, she slips her hand beneath the waistband of her breeches and between her legs. She’s on a knife’s edge already: dripping down her thighs and throbbing, readier than she’s ever been. The first touch of her fingers is maddening: she can’t help the whimpers, the way her hips buck, her whole body shaking. Too far gone to tease, she sets a quick and brutal pace: tight circles round and round, and the wet sounds are loud and obscene in her ears, only she doesn’t care because the flame within her has become an inferno and she’s rising upwards, straining towards her peak, and she’s almost got it this time, almost, she’s close, _so close_ , oh gods, please—A sudden loud shout from below startles her. She rips her hand from between her legs and huddles beneath the covers, trying to calm her breathing, her heart, her mind. Just like that, the moment’s gone.

A raider must have forgotten something.

* * *

The dreams continue, an indulgent foray into oblivion. It’s when they turn into something more she starts to wonder if she’d stepped over the simple feeling of ‘lust’. Tonight, they’re dancing around a campfire under the stars. This, she considers in a haze, is one of her most oft-visited fantasies. The dreams are becoming intimate in a different way. Domestic. Sleeping next to each other, buried under the blankets, gentle caresses, hand-holding, her eyes, the way her face lights up when she sees her, _her_. Romantic and gushy dreams that fill her stomach with butterflies when she thinks about them.

Sometimes she slams her up against the wall of her bedchamber, wraps her legs around her hips and steals the breath from her lungs, her kisses bruising, punishing. Sometimes she dreams of their escape, and she holds her hand tightly to her and whispers promises neither of them can keep. Sometimes they die together in battle, hands clasped, red blood flowing from both their bodies. Sometimes she loves her. And sometimes Eivor loves her back.

* * *

She searches for her eagerly in her dreams when she cannot hold back any longer. Still from across an infinite, bleak distance. Still too far to touch. She sees her standing motionless in the drab emptiness, but her back is turned to her, and from so far away she can only make out the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. This time she does not reach for her.

The scene changes and something is wrong. Wherever her drifting mind has brought her is tainted, warped by her inner turmoil into some dreadful place. There are no warm reveries calling to her here, no hazy beacons of whimsical peace. There is only a deep and endless blackness, heavy in its oppressive silence, and she feels as though she’s standing at the bottom of a terrible, frozen sea, Rán herself pulling her into the depths. She sees Eivor, a guiding light in the void of waves, but she isn’t happy when she reaches her. Her arms are crossed defensively, short nails digging trenches into the flesh of her arms.

* * *

It takes a few more nights for her to dream again after that, but this time, they’re hiding from a snowstorm in an abandoned hut, their bodies enveloped by a heavy fur blanket as fire crackles in the hearth beside them. Her legs are locked around Eivor’s waist, her nails digging into her back as the wind howls outside. This is a dream she’s had before, but it’s different all the same. Eivor’s hands and mouth are all over her. It’s like she wants to leave no part of her untouched. And everywhere that her hand or her lips touch, sear Randvi to the core. When their lips meet there is so much fire, so much pent up longing… She grinds her hips into her, feeling her so close to where she wants her to be.

There’s a quiet desperation as her mouth travels down her body, one that she’s never felt before, and it overwhelms her. Her hands and lips are everywhere, marking her, claiming her as she lays her back (she often imagines her to be possessive); her teeth find a spot on her inner thigh. Randvi’s hips buck up to meet her and she groans before her tongue starts lapping at her. Her nails are digging into Randvi’s waist as she throws her head back. When she opens her eyes, it is to see her blue eyes locked on hers, something like a lopsided smirk on her lips before they crash down onto her again as a hand slips between them and she adds a finger.

Soon, too soon, the swirls of her tongue and the thrusts of her finger become more erratic and Randvi arches her back. In what seems simultaneously like only moments and an eternity later, she is crashing over the edge. She fucks her through her own release, and only then does she let herself get her turn. Afterwards, Eivor curls into her side and lays her head against her chest, smiling up at her, sated and content. It’s everything Randvi ever wanted and never thought she could have, and she fights the weariness she feels settling over her. In the back of her mind, she knows it’s only a matter of time before she wakes up again.

* * *

Her days become marked by thinking about how she could even look her in the eyes in the waking world after all this, she exhausts every idea that comes to her mind, but every time it seems she’s getting close, it slips through her fingers like half-melted snow. At night, she falls into a restless sleep, her dreams a landscape of blurry images, overwhelming sensations and lingering feelings, and even though she tries to keep tight control over her mind, it’s like the dreams of _her_ have opened a door that she can no longer close properly.

She recognizes her, the raven keeping watch on the side of her head, the strong bearing, the blonde braid falling over her shoulder, the blaze in her iced eyes reflected in hers, so overwhelming she nearly falters, struggles to stay upright. She stands before Eivor and she stares back, a faint smile turning mischievous at the corner of her mouth, as if to say “Hello again.” She feels her stomach clench, feels her blood heat at the sight of her. Her eyes flash boundless blue.

She realizes she is dreaming as she glides her hands along her back, rises up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to hers, burning-hot, branding. She knows that she is but a shadow, this resolute warrior smoldering here in the darkness. She does not care. She is playful, curious, sliding her tongue along the seam of her lips before slipping inward to tangle with hers, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and she doesn’t fight when she knots her fingers in her hair, presses close to her, kisses her with open desire. There is hellfire beneath her skin, in her blood, and for the first time in years she feels invincible.

Eivor breaks the kiss, stares at her with eyes gone lust-dark and hooded. She curves her hand around her jaw, fingertips tight against her skin. Something in Randvi protests, fights, as their eyes burn into each other’s. She’s the Wolf-Kissed, she is darkness, death, power thrumming through her, pulsing, pounding, everywhere... Eivor smiles, for her, soft and beautiful in her uncanniness. Randvi’s breathing is rough and ragged as she presses her specter lover back against the wool sheets, settles across her lap and straddles her hips.

Taking each side of her face in her hands, Randvi kisses her, pours her own passion and lust back into her. They melt together like ice and boiling water being sloshed together, moving as one until melding completely. Hands move in flurries, cloth tears and falls to the ground by the side of the bed. She pulls her tunic over her head then licks at her neck, nipping her sharp little teeth below her ear until dark marks start to appear. The drengr’s strong hands practically wrench her clothes from her skin, fingers dancing over, inching lower, closer until they sink in deep, just in the right spot and slicked with liquid heat that have her writhing. Randvi’s hips rock against her fingers in tandem, all but whimpering every time she stills or slows. She furrows her brow, scrunches her nose in anger when Eivor stops and pulls away, and it seems her impatience amuses her greatly.

Flicking her thumb over that perfect little nub just right earns Eivor fingernails digging into her shoulders and a silent swear she can’t make out. Randvi leans forwards and kisses her chin and along her jawline, her breathing loud in her ear. Her response comes as a hiss through gritted teeth, a primal snarl of frustration. She leans back, watching the muscular form underneath her with only her undertunic keeping her from her carnal goal. It takes but a second to pull her free from that last confine and then Eivor’s fingers are going back to stroking her at just the right angle.

Randvi looks at her and pauses, letting go of her prize to lick her way up her chest, over her breasts to her lips, rubbing her body over hers like a wiggling, weighted blanket. Her red hair comes to just before Eivor’s nose, filling it with the scent of fresh pine as she sucks on the other side of her neck hard enough to leave an angry dark welt complete with teeth indents. When she is finished she pulls away with a loud pop of suction, making a sight of licking her lips before sitting back up. She watches as Eivor’s hand snakes up her own neck to touch the mark lightly, feeling how her pulse is pounding up against the tips of her fingers. Randvi’s sure she can sense a stand of pride, almost possession coming from her. She’d left her mark on her for everyone to see. Because in this bubble of illusion, she’s allowed to do that.

She blinks, once, with her infinite sea-green eyes, and Eivor is gone, only the lingering warmth of her body remains, the delusion of a memory of her fingertips against her skin.

And Randvi wakes, breath seizing high in her throat, eyes fluttering dark and unfocused into the night, her hand shoved between her legs and a sigh ghosting fire across her lips.

* * *

The next day she wanders through the settlement, her cloak pulled tight around her, the end of it flowing like the wind with every movement. The skin on her head prickles and she wants to undo her ponytail, to run her fingers across her scalp and scream but she doesn’t do it. Something dangerous is beginning to fester in the pit of her stomach. It’s been coiling up, hot and wanting and it sets her skin on fire every night. She has to stop her aimless wandering around this vision of Fornburg to focus on holding herself together. She remembers impossibly tiny details about her previous fantasies and they creep under her skin like termites. They eat her up. The way her tongue ghosted over Eivor’s jawbone, the way her nails dug into the skin of her back and worst of all, her small, ragged breaths through all of it. Her chest rising and falling against her own. They were broken and desperate sounds and she can hear them so clearly, it makes her go blind. She closes her eyes and staggers to the nearest wall, holding onto it as if it is the last bit of her sanity.

Eivor laughs somewhere, Randvi hears that echo of her and crosses her legs firmly to dampen the throbbing at her core. Suddenly, she’s in her bedchamber, enveloped by her. Her back is flushed against Eivor’s front, one firm hand splayed across her breasts to keep her close, the other at her core, their legs intertwined. Randvi bites down on her lip, feeling her face contort into a grimace. She breathes in huffs, heavy and loud. She exposes her neck for her and loses the last bit of sensibility she’d had any hope of holding on to. Eivor snaps right down to it, kissing and biting and licking until she withers, rolling her hips against her with remarkable strength.

When she turns her head to look her in the eyes, for a second, it feels like she’s right there in the dream with her. It’s like Eivor senses her thoughts and a wave of mixed emotions hits her, making her frosty eyes widen in surprise. Randvi wants her to know that she wants this, wants her. She wants her and wants to be hers in every possible realm, be it waking or dreaming. She wonders who hurts more from this idea; her or the Wolf-Kissed. Before she kisses her, she can see the contradicting emotions curse through her, too. It’s all over her face, how she doesn’t know how she feels about what she feels for her.

For the first time in a while, Randvi opens her eyes when she feels soft snow land on her skin. She doesn’t feel the cold. It’s a dream-world, after all. But she feels that she does belong in this made-up world. With her. And what would she give to stay with her in this world for the end of times? What wouldn’t she give? Now Eivor is standing before her, tall and firm. The drengr glances down at her. She’s completely naked and exposed to her eyes. She is so painfully beautiful Randvi feels like crying. So tall and strong, her muscles defined. Her pleading eyes are talking and it fills her with an unexpected rush of what she can only define as _love_.

The blinding white world around could as well fall away from them now. She can believe that in this moment, it’s only them in all of Midgard, or whichever realm this is. Just her and this ethereal, mighty warrior who looks at her as if she was made of gold. There is no darkness, no cold, no Sigurd, no nothing. Only two bodies and minds in a silvery void. Eivor’s eyes fall on her. Marveling at her, she moves closer to her and climbs on top of her, the snow under them soft like clouds. She keeps staring, intently, and nudges her knees apart with a little hesitation. It seems... almost shy. Nerves start building up in Randvi. A part of her knows that this is just a dream, dream versions of themselves acting on a discarnate plane of existence, but she feels so completely made of flesh in this second, it’s hard to remember that.

Eivor is searching for something in her eyes, she is waiting for her to consent and she does so, willingly. She nods and shuts the ringing warning bells in the back of her head out with rigor. Once she has rummaged through her emotions and finds nothing but hunger, she lets her get right to it. She doesn’t need preparation. She is wet and ready, but still slightly taken aback when she positions herself within moments and then pushes two fingers inside her quick and deep. A growl breaks from her throat as she enters her warmth in a rush, sudden, like lightning. Randvi welcomes her, welcomes her beginning thrusts, her trembling, jerky movements. She wants this to be real more than she cares to admit, as she crashes into her with abandon.

Her teeth catch the skin on her shoulder and she bites down while the vision fills her up, her mouth hanging loose around the skin of her neck. She’s going rougher and faster, racing toward her release. She thinks that if she goes on like this, she won’t last long. As soon as that thought takes shape in her, Eivor halts. All motion ceases, leaving her with an emptiness she has never felt before. She wants to protest, to make her go on, but then she looks down at her and Randvi stops short.

First, the drengr studies her eyes, then her lips, then her eyes again. She’s breathing heavily, her own eyes dark with lust. She holds her there for a moment, crawling under Randvi’s skin and into her soul as her breath hitches in her throat. Inside her, she can feel the tightness of her chest, how it is all falling into itself and focusing only on her. She can almost see herself in the other woman’s mind. She glows, like a beacon of light and it’s killing her. Randvi is livid, burning up with raging emotions she is struggling to control.

Eivor breathes in deep and then, ever so tauntingly slow, starts to move again. She pushes inside her once more, keeping her eyes locked on hers with a gaze so focused and fierce, it shuts down her system entirely. There is no air left between the two of them and she touches parts of her, both physical and beyond, that she had not known to exist. She keeps at the slow pace and pushes deeper. The way she bites her lip and her eyes roll back into her head ever so often only to find hers again, makes Randvi’s stomach coil into a thick, pulsing ball. She digs her fingernails into her arm and she picks up the speed. She makes low, guttural sounds as she pushes into her again and again and then—swift and efficient, she turns them around so Randvi sits on her, straddling her. Her heart feels even fuller now with an emotion she does not dare name again, and her mind goes blank again and again.

This feels so impossibly good, she can’t imagine anything better. She brings her hand between their bodies and finds Eivor’s sweet spot, placing her knuckles just so that she can grind against them. Everything pales beside the sensation as she fills her up, desperate beneath her own trembling body. She rises up to meet her every thrust and makes her forget her own name. As she rides her, her fingertips skim over her stomach and breasts, scratching at the skin. She tries to go slow but she is failing miserably, wanting it all and wanting it now, and fast and harder.

She is not yet there when the drengr’s release surprises them both with rattling force and quick build-up. She pushes forward and kisses her to swallow her moans as she is lost in the waves of pleasure. Her mouth falls open and she can hear her breathing in the distance. Eivor’s light is joined by her own and they might as well become a stray spark across the sky, flung straight out of Muspelheim, drenched in fire. She sits on top of her and rides out her climax with a pained and helpless sigh and she is everything that ever mattered. She will get herself back soon. But until then, she just needs her to be inside her.

And be nothing else.

Randvi wakes up with a start in a puddle of her own sweat, damp between her legs and out of breath.

She reaches for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On today's episode of "Learn About Norse Culture while Reading Smut:"  
>  _draumskrok_ \- The Norse took dreams quite seriously. They also acknowledged that some dreams were random and meaningless (and called them draumskrok, “dream-nonsense”).  
>  _miðnótt_ \- Midnight, also a roughly three-hour portion of the day beginning at midnight.  
>  _Surtr_ \- The fire giant guarding the realm of Muspelheim.  
>  _Rán_ \- In Norse mythology, Rán is a goddess and a personification of the sea.
> 
> Also fun fact: they believed shooting stars were actually sparks flying out of Muspelheim, just like the Sun and the Moon.
> 
> And lastly, Happy Holidays to those who celebrate!


	5. Temerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having this conversation with him feels more daunting than any battle. Randvi was right, of course, about waiting a few days before telling him, but it’s been almost two weeks now, and she’s been putting it off for long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _temerate_ \- to break a bond or promise.

Eivor paces in front of the longhouse, cracking her knuckles as her eyes flick to the shadowy figure hunched over the table inside.

She misses her brother. She truly does. They’ve been avoiding each other ever since they returned to England. Well, Sigurd has been avoiding almost everyone, really, spending most of his days sitting by the docks, staring at the river, thinking about whatever Sigurd usually thinks about. Even though he’s been slowly getting back to himself, Eivor hates how she still notices the lingering sadness on his face, the tension in his usually confident shoulders, the uncertainty and hollowness in his gaze. She misses talking to him–not that they had talked _that_ often before–but she misses how easy it was to converse with him, after all, he knew her better than anyone. She misses laughing with him and sharing a joke that no one else understands. She misses their banter and she misses the comfortable silence they used to share when they went out to hunt together.

She just wants her brother back. The boy who saved her life many winters ago and the man he was before everything happened. Now they’re like strangers, awkward encounters and tense silences bleeding into their interactions. She can almost take that, can almost deal with how odd he is acting, but there’s a persistent thought in the back of her mind; nagging her, constantly telling her that there’s one thing they must talk about, one thing that could irrevocably sever their already fractured bond.

Having this conversation with him feels more daunting than any battle. Randvi was right, of course, about waiting a few days before telling him, but it’s been almost two weeks now, and she’s been putting it off for long enough. Even if she tells herself that sooner or later she _must_ speak to him, it doesn’t make her stomach feel any better. Her lover had suggested that they should tell him together, but Eivor had told her no. She needed to do this alone. Sister to brother. She spent many sleepless nights contemplating and rehearsing what she was going to say to him; to try and make him understand, maybe even make him forgive the unforgivable. She tried to prepare herself for the inevitable shouting, the curses and the insults, and came to expect a few well-deserved punches as well. She only had herself to blame if it came to that.

But she couldn’t bring herself to approach him, not yet, cursing herself for being such a raven starver. It was easy to find excuses; there were too many clansmen around, there was something more important that needed her attention, it was too late or too early in the day, and so on.

She’s standing by the entrance and as she looks at him, he seems so small and lonesome in the empty dining hall that she realizes perhaps there is no right moment. But there is this moment, and imperfect as it is, it suddenly feels like the only chance she is ever going to get. Perhaps she just has to say what she has to say, and hope for the best. So, she decides there’s no point in delaying the unavoidable any longer; it’s as good a chance as any. She gives a nervous little sigh, straightens her shoulders and makes her way inside.

“Brother,” she greets as she approaches him by the table, trying to keep her tone even and unwavering. “May we speak?”

Sigurd nods as he slurps his stew and gestures for her to take a seat. “Is it about my w—” he starts, then falters. “Is it about Randvi?” he corrects himself, wiping his mouth with his arm.

Eivor freezes, eyes going wide in horror as she slowly takes a seat across him. It takes everything in her not to turn on her heels and walk away from him. They’re both silent for several moments, and his tone is much softer when he finally speaks again.

“I was waiting for you to bring it up,” the man gives a sharp, derisive snort, turning his attention back to his meal, eating with precise, measured movements. As precise as one can be with one arm. “Eivor,” he says with laugh when she doesn’t say anything. “You think I haven’t known about you two?”

Eivor blinks. No, this isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. Surely, Sigurd must be grasping at straws. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he must be pretending, teasing her and playing games with her like he used to. Only neither of them can actually win this time. “I’m not a fool, sister,” he looks up at her with piercing eyes, but there is no malice in them.

Until her brother’s reaction Eivor was willing to bet a rather large amount of silver that no one knew about their affair. Her brother fixes her with a look so searing Eivor wants to descend to Hel itself, get as far away from this discussion as possible. “People talk, and besides, did you really think I didn’t notice? Even way back in Norway? All those times she brushed me aside to spend time with you, help you with your errands? The way she disappeared to check on you whenever you returned from a raid or a hunt? The way _you_ look at her?” Sigurd turns back to his meal and shrugs.

Eivor is absolutely and utterly mortified. Has it been that obvious? People talk, yes, but they tried so hard to be careful, except for those few occasions when the bed seemed simply too far away from the alliance table. She kicks herself for being so gods-damned _stupid_ , letting her lust take over her and make her throw caution to the wind. “Sigurd, I—” she bites her lips to stop the desperate excuses that are forming in her brain.

“No, let me finish,” he says, swallowing the last bite and pushing the bowl aside before leaning forward. “I did notice. And I would be lying if I said I wasn’t angry. I was. I do care for her, you know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Eivor stammers, hands tightly clasped in front of her.

“What good would it have done? Back then our marriage was necessary to keep the peace. My father would never have let me divorce her and now…” Sigurd presses his lips together in concentration. “Our union was never one of love, it was never intended to be that and you know that. It had simply lost its purpose and I see things clearer now, after what we’ve been through…” he laments and pauses for a moment, pondering.

Eivor shifts uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding making eye contact.

“Do you love her?” Sigurd asks with clean conviction. Eivor’s eyes shoot up and she stares at him for a moment while she tries to recover from the way the question made her insides swirl and bubble up into nerves. Sigurd looks at her expectantly and shakes his head. “Just answer me. Do you love her?”

“More than anything,” she confesses, unable to keep her voice from breaking.

Sigurd nods and Eivor thinks she’s hallucinating when she sees the corner of his mouth quirk up into a gentle smile. “Then if I objected, I would be robbing you the chance to love. I would be robbing _myself_ the chance to love, truly love someone. I see that now and it’s not my intention, Eivor.” The words are kind but Eivor gets the impression they were torn from her brother’s chest. “Now, of course, it will be strange to see you… with her… and it will take me some time to get used to it,” he adds. “But you're good for her, you can give her the life she had always longed for. And she’s good for you, keeps that strong head of yours in check,” he chuckles. “I am glad you have each other.”

This cannot be. She must have eaten some poisonous mushrooms and Sigurd saying all this must be just a figment of her imagination, telling her the things she wants to hear instead of the ruthless truth. Or he had already knocked her out cold and this is what her unconscious mind came up with. “Sigurd, I _betrayed_ you. I wasn’t strong enough—” she interjects when she finally snaps back to reality, unsure what exactly she wants to achieve by emphasizing the fact that she did, indeed, betray him and gave in to what she craved for so long, or if her brother comprehends the weight of the situation at all.

“And I betrayed _you_. I betrayed her. I betrayed the clan, letting my hunger for glory and power blind me. I wasn’t good Jarl and, by Thor’s hammer, I most certainly haven’t been a good husband for a long time.” His sincerity catches Eivor off-guard and she wavers, considering her brother’s words. She sits still, flabbergasted for a moment, then nods and waits for him to go on. “Look around,” he says as he sits back, lifting his hand and gestures vaguely around them. “You built all this. You and Randvi, and you’ve been here for her while I was chasing some grand fantasy. I failed you.”

“Brother…” She feels like she can't find the words to respond adequately, so she just shakes her head.

“No, you don’t have to say anything. Just promise me you will treat her better than I ever did. Love her the way she deserves to be loved.”

Eivor clenches her jaw, trying to keep her eyes from tearing up. “I promise.”

“We both agreed that there’s no need for a public assembly for the divorce. This matter concerns nobody but us. And I’m sure you have noticed that I have already moved my belongings to the barracks.” Sigurd breathes in deep as he stands, then pats his sister on the shoulder before making his way out of the longhouse, disappearing in the bright sunlight before Eivor can say anything.

She just sits there in stunned silence.

* * *

That evening, Randvi helps Eivor move her belongings over to her bedchamber.

Putting the last trinket in place, a familiar feeling sparks in the drengr’s chest and she can’t help the smile that takes over her face. Randvi is here, standing next to her and Mouse is already curled up on the bed. Their bed. She wants to pinch herself. Surely, this isn’t real. Surely, she’s about to wake up and find that her mind has been playing tricks on her.

Better than pinching herself, she pulls her lover close instead, pressing into her space urgently. The moment their lips press together; she knows this cannot be anything other than real. A surge of excitement tingles all the way through her at the thought that she is finally free to kiss those lips whenever she feels like it, without guilt creeping up in the back of her mind and poisoning the love she feels for her.

She sighs contentedly and smiles against Randvi’s lips before returning to kiss her again and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I _know_ this is going to be an unpopular opinion, but hear me out. Yes, I hated Sigurd's guts when he was pulling all that I'm a God™ shit and I didn't even really want to get him back, but... I got the ‘good’ ending, he went back to England with Eivor and I do genuinely think he changed for the better. The way he tells her to sit in the throne… it was just such a soft moment. I—I just think that (deep down) his heart is in the right place and he wouldn’t flip his shit when Eivor tells him about her and Randvi. Why, you might ask? Because he doesn’t _love_ love her. He cares for her, like a friend or a close family member would, but not as a romantic partner, obviously. I also headcanon him fucking around on his travels, so… And I know that some Viking men had the right to even execute their wives (and their lovers) if they caught them having an affair BUT I think all the shit that went down really gave him some perspective of what’s important and what’s not.
> 
> Anyway, I just think this dynamic is interesting, sorry for the lack of actual Eivor/Randvi.


	6. Aspectabund

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eivor tries not to think about it too much, tries to not let it get to her. There’s nothing strange in appreciating a heartfelt, friendly compliment from your sister-in-law, after all. Until there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _aspectabund_ \- letting emotion show easily through the face or eyes.

As a small child, Eivor was constantly told that she was destined for greatness. She can remember it in the way her father’s eyes shone when he spoke of his daughter and her achievements that seemed monumental at such a young age; the first time she shot a deer, the arrow piercing straight through the beast’s heart, the first time she picked up (a rather small) axe and hit the target dummy right on the head, the first time she held a wooden sword to her opponent’s neck while she trained with the other children in the clan. His voice is still fresh in her mind and so alive whenever she recalls sitting atop his shoulders, her father giggling, so full of life and warmth that it rivalled the midday sun. _You will be a mighty drengr one day, little cub._

She remembers the way the air had rushed past her hair, kept short for convenience, and the way her feet would tingle as her father swung her so effortlessly over to her mother, who simply smiled at the pair over their antics. She would do anything to feel that warm fluttery feeling. She spent countless tiresome hours honing her skills for that very reason, to make her parents proud. She watched her father intently as he showed her how to wield weapons and shields properly, eager to learn everything he had to teach her. She would pride herself in the fact that she put children twice her age and size to shame when it came to pretend-holmgangs or archery contests. All for that funny little warm feeling that blossomed deep within her chest. It was marvelous.

But she had to bury that feeling along with her parents. It’s been so gods-damned long since anyone had told her that she was doing something good and actually meant it. The highest compliments she receives these days are approving grunts from Sigurd, half-hearted nods from Styrbjorn and the occasional pat on the back from a fellow warrior. No “Good job killing that housecarl back there, Eivor.” No “That was a great shot, Eivor.” No nothing. But she had learned to live without it, as she had learned to live without a great number of things, and it had stopped bothering her a while ago.

Well, she thought it had stopped bothering her.

Until she meets Randvi. Until she hears Randvi say “ _Excellent work_ , Eivor,” when she returns from a hunt with an elk so large it’s enough to feed half the clan that night. And there it is. That little swell in her chest that makes her lips curve into a lopsided smirk. Eivor feels her cheeks heat up and she ducks her head to hide the red flare across her face. Randvi doesn’t seem to notice, marveling at the carcass laid out in front of them.

Eivor thinks that it’s a one-time thing, only because she doesn’t remember the last time someone had praised her efforts. It would be exactly the same if somebody else had said it, she tells herself. More likely, even. It’s just the unexpected praise that’s getting to her. And it’s not like Randvi is complimenting her that often, right?

She’s wrong.

It starts with the small things, like when she finds the child who wandered a little too far from home and ended up lost in the woods, or when she helps a cat that got stuck too high up on a tree, or when she outdrinks even the largest, most bottomless raiders and doesn’t even sway after the fourth horn. That’s when Randvi chirps “ _Great job_ ,” or “ _You did good_ ,” and every time she does, Eivor feels like she is struck by lightning, Hrungnir's slayer itself beating down on her heart. Every kind word that leaves the redhead’s lips fills her stomach with warmth, makes her limbs fuzzy and her spirit soar.

She wants so badly to believe that Randvi doesn’t notice. But she probably does notice, because she keeps doing it, keeps blurting out praises whenever the drengr does something well. It’s nonsensical, the way she says something, but then watches Eivor’s face for any sign that the compliment had been received.

Eivor tries not to think about it too much, tries to not let it get to her. There’s nothing strange in appreciating a heartfelt, friendly compliment from your sister-in-law, after all. Until there is. It’s definitely strange when she wakes up one night, panting and sweating with the image of Randvi in her bed, heaving under her, murmuring that she’s doing _so well_ , _so good_ and she feels that warm, fuzzy feeling again, but in all the wrong ways. Hours pass and she doesn’t know what to do as she waits for her body to calm down. She isn't sure which is worse: the guilt or the overwhelming, paralyzing longing she feels. By Thor’s death, why does she react to her words like _that_? And why, gods, why does her mind conjure up such sinful images.

To her misfortune, the redhead also gets into the habit of not just thanking Eivor, in specific detail, for each small thing she does (delivering an urgent letter to a neighboring settlement, offering to sharpen her axe when she’s about to sharpen her own, saving her a bowl of stew when Randvi’s stuck in a prolonged diplomacy meeting with Styrbjorn and some overly talkative Jarl from the north), and keeps paying compliments to her whenever she can.

_So, it was old Fiske who stole all those fish? I would never have suspected him! You really are quite clever, Wolf-Kissed._

This earns her an obvious blush spreading over Eivor’s neck, creeping out of hiding from beneath the collar of her armor. She tells herself it’s because people rarely appreciated her intellect.

_I admire your strength, Eivor._

This makes the drengr stop dead in her tracks as she lifts the crate of supplies onto her shoulder. She looks at Randvi with her mouth agape for a split second before scowling and scurrying away.

She hates how easily her defenses crumble around this woman. It used to be easier to hide, but over time, her reaction to praise, especially praise coming from Randvi, has only gotten worse. A tinge of red here, a rosy patch of skin there. She _must_ get Randvi to stop complimenting her. She needs the blood flow to her brain and her muscles, not her face. She considers the idea for a while, but something inside her starts protesting. By now, she understands all too clearly why it sends chills through her body and makes her _want_. She loves when Randvi compliments her. She loves it right to the point that she’s starting to think that it’s obvious not just to Randvi, but to whoever is around them at the moment, and that will simply not do.

But Randvi doesn’t stop.

Not even after Sigurd returns from his travels, which makes it a hundred times worse. Randvi bouquets her drinking prowess when they’re sitting together at the feast thrown to celebrate his return, when Sigurd’s is _right there_ , and like always, she watches for Eivor to respond. Immediately, she feels a prickling sensation along her spine, her face burns and she lifts her jug to her lips, trying to mask the pinkish shine on her cheeks, trying to make it seem like the high-colored skin is a result of the alcohol and not her words. She doesn’t dare look Randvi in the eyes, afraid she would see how much her praise affects her. But when she does finally risk a glance up at her, she’s faced with a steady, knowing gaze. _Skítr_. Randvi always looks so gods-damned pleased when she sees her react and then Eivor’s stomach flutters with that familiar feeling and once again, she has to look away in embarrassment. What must Randvi think of her? Quite frankly, she must think it’s pathetic.

But she doesn’t stop.

* * *

It continues after they cross the whale-road and sail to England. She starts leaving little scribbles around Eivor’s bedchamber, telling her “ _Excellent work as always_ , Eivor,” whenever she helps the villagers set up their lodgings and shops and makes sure to accolade her efforts every time she returns with new alliances. “ _Well done_ , Eivor,” she says so nonchalantly it makes the blood that turns her cheeks red boil. “These early victories will pay off well.” These words, this praise that falls from her lips clings to Eivor as sweet and thick as honey.

“ _Well done_ to you both,” she exclaims after Eivor reports that the Ragnarssons in Ledecestrescire are now friends to their clan. Eivor has the quick, desperate hope that young Ceolbert won't notice the color it brings to her face. She knows it’s getting out of hand. She knows she has to put an end to it. Sooner or later, someone is going to notice. In fact, she is sure the only reason they hadn’t yet caught on is because settling in this strange land was effectively distracting everyone.

But she doesn’t stop.

* * *

She commends her when she returns from raids with Saxon riches spilling out of the longship, and comforts her when the pillaging doesn’t go as planned. And that’s exactly what she’s doing right now.

The raid was a disaster in every sense of the world. The scouts they sent ahead had severely misjudged the number of guards patrolling around the monastery. The ringing in Eivor’s ears was louder than the screams of her clansmen as they fell one by one, spears sheathed through their abdomen, swords cutting through their throats. If Bragi hadn’t dragged her back to the longship, she would be just as dead.

“It is not your fault. You know that, right?” Randvi’s voice is soft and soothing as she wraps clean bandage around her arm that was scraped by an arrow. “You did everything you could. There was nothing else left.”

Eivor doesn’t reply, because what could she say? What could possibly wipe the memory of their warriors being slain one after the other? Thankfully, Randvi doesn’t press her to respond. She just sighs quietly as she washes the dried blood and dirt off her back.

“It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t good enough,” Eivor mutters when she musters up the will to speak.

“That is not on you, Eivor. You almost got yourself killed trying to save them, can’t you see how… noble that makes you?” Randvi suddenly seems very close, so near that when she speaks, her warm breath dances along the shell of Eivor’s ear. “You are willing to die for your clan, you prove that every day, and if that doesn’t make you good enough, I don’t know what does. You are _good_ , Eivor.” Eivor’s breath hitches on what’s almost like a whimper. She feels absolutely miserable, but Randvi sounds so _honest_. The crimson flush blooming across her chest might have gone unnoticed, had she been covered in anything more than the wrappings around her breasts, but paired with the desperate, needy sound she makes, there’s no way in Hel Randvi doesn’t notice it. She would be more embarrassed, if her blood wouldn’t feel so fucking hot and bothersome as it courses through her veins.

Still, she doesn’t stop.

* * *

Certainly not after their little outing to Grantebridgescire. In all honesty, it only gets worse. Under normal circumstances, with any woman who wasn’t Randvi, Eivor would assume they were flirting with her, that maybe they wanted her to make a move, but she has to constantly remind herself that this is _her brother’s wife_. But every time Randvi as much as touches her arm, or puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder, Eivor lets herself imagine, lets herself pretend that Randvi wants her the same way she wants her.

That day, the constant teasing in Randvi’s voice does nothing to help the erratic beating of Eivor’s heart, or the redness creeping up on the sides of her neck, or the words that threaten to spill out at any moment.

She can’t pretend she is not grateful when the opportunity to have a good fight presents itself; it will be a welcome distraction from the thoughts warring in her mind as they ride through the fields. She desperately needs some kind distraction after hearing Randvi call her _my lord_ and _iron-fisted drengr._ A soft chuckle comes from deep in her chest, where what feels like fireflies dance manically behind her ribcage. She always gets tingles all the way down to her toes whenever Randvi calls her _drengr_ , and although she knows that the redhead doesn’t mean it in any sort of way other than a statement of fact—she is a _drengr_ , after all—it still manages to make her squirm. She finds herself wanting to do and say things that would get Randvi to call her that again. She thanks the gods for the simple fact that Randvi can’t see her face now, her eyes blown wide as she grips the reins tighter.

But no fight can be as distracting as the sight of _her_.

Eivor’s movements are automatic, unthinking as she cuts down the marauders, her eye constantly drifting to Randvi, red hair flying around her with each strike and blow. Seeing her fight always takes her breath away — today is no exception. She’s as fearless in combat as she is cunning and convincing in diplomacy. It’s one of the qualities she admires most about her. She tells herself that it’s just because she doesn’t often get to see Randvi like this. Sure, she has seen her wield an axe before, but this is different. She looks so _alive_. There are no frowns or furrowed eyebrows. There are no tight shoulders or knuckles that need to be cracked. Just the pure thrill of a spear-din. It’s good to see her like this, being truly herself, and there’s enough truth to all that Eivor’s telling herself that she lets herself believe it for the moment.

Then the fight picks up, and thoughts of grabbing her and kissing her right there and then drift from her mind at last, instead turning her focus on getting the two of them—and Magni’s horse—out of the camp alive.

Which she does.

Hours pass, mead flows, and then Randvi kisses her. From that moment, Eivor lets herself indulge in that fluttery feeling that washes over her when her praises seep into her very bones, no longer trying to hide the effect her words have on her. Making love to her is the quintessence of everything that makes Eivor who she is. It’s passionate, warm, gentle and surprisingly rough at the same time. Each time, her lover is mesmerizing, a revelation, knowing exactly what to do and say to her to send her to the edge of euphoric madness.

_You’ve been on my mind all day, my love… Look this way, I love the way you look at me… Very good. Lower now._

And she grows bolder with each passing day, complimenting her more frequently when they’re around others. She never makes a display of it, but it’s obvious enough for the mixed feelings of nervousness and excitement to start pumping adrenaline through Eivor’s veins. She praises her when they’re standing on the docks and Eivor manages to catch a rather large bullhead, Merton and his grandson hauling in their own catch not even two feet away. She praises her as she fastens the new sail to the mast of the longship with the help of Birna and Gudrun. She praises her when they throw a feast after she returns from Lunden. It feels wrong to have a feast without their Jarl. But the people need it, there’s no questioning it.

So, she mingles among her fellow clansmen with ease, reveling in the feeling of camaraderie and _life_ , inquiring after their well-being and what preparations are still needed around Ravensthorpe. But even these conversations can’t hold her attention long enough not to sneak glances at her lover. She’s got her sly smirk, and trails temptation everywhere as she floats from group to group. It doesn’t matter who she speaks to, she always emphasizes that the settlement flourishes because of how _hard-working_ and _courageous_ Eivor is and makes sure that she hears it, too.

Not once do their paths overlap – which is admittedly sometimes more strategy from Eivor’s part than fate. Her ears perk up and her thoughts whirl haphazardly in her mind as her heart goes from pumping steadily to hammering violently each time she overhears a compliment. She inhales sharply, almost forgetting to breathe. It’s the reason she struggles so much to be around her these days when they’re not alone, because she isn’t shy with her commendations, she never had been, it’s just different. Now that she _knows_ that there was always intent behind her praises, in the way she waited to see her reaction.

She’s talking to Tove when Eivor is about to walk past her, but the fingers—the ones that she knows all too well now—darting out and wrapping around her wrist pull her back.

_Wouldn’t have been possible with our mighty drengr here…_

A hand touches her shoulder. _Sorðit_. Even before Randvi even finishes saying the sentence, Eivor can already feel her cheeks glow. It’s so stupid. At this point Randvi had told her something kind almost every day, but she still reacts as if it was the very first time she heard it. Then her face starts seething with red and she has to leave before she loses her gods-damned mind or does something stupid and horribly embarrassing like mooning over her lover, _her missing brother’s wife_ , in a room full of people. She puts down her jug of mead and excuses herself briefly – to get some fresh air, she says, but it’s actually to stop her heart from exploding.

She doesn’t look back; she doesn’t have to. She knows Randvi is following her steps at a distance, curving between tall trees and winding through bushes, but she says nothing until they’re far enough to be out of sight. When she catches up with her, Eivor immediately pins her against the closest tree, holding her prisoner in her own arms. Their eyes meet, and for a second she is taken aback by the utter expressiveness of her blue eyes.

“I can’t do this anymore, Randvi,” she sputters after a few heavy moments of silence.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, my love” she teases, her voice full of amusement and taut with her own anticipation.

“You know exactly what you’re doing to me. So either follow through on what you have started or stop. Because if I can’t have you right this moment, I will have to walk away and take care of things myself.” The words are a catalyst, a spark that breaks the tension as Randvi steps forward and kisses her. She gives a soft whimper and shivers slightly as the drengr presses her up against the tree more firmly. They move together like a tide washing against the shore, steady and purposeful, warm mouth captured in a warmer kiss that pulls quiet, needy noises from Eivor’s throat. Absent-mindedly, she registers the faint bite of mead on Randvi’s lips when they part.

Randvi sighs as she stops Eivor’s hand when she starts to fumble with her belt. “Find me after the feast is over,” Randvi grins, pressing another chaste kiss against Eivor’s lips before turning around to head back towards the longhouse. Eivor is frozen in place for a good minute, eyes following the redhead until she disappears in the distance.

* * *

And then she stops.

She stops when Sigurd, or the shell of the man that was once Sigurd, is back. There is no place for such foolishness, not when the bitter shadow that has descended upon the settlement grows thicker, becomes more impenetrable day by day. She has to admit that she misses it. Not just being able to kiss her. Not just the feel of the other woman, but the way her silly little compliments made fireflies light up in her. It’s stupid; it’s downright _ridiculous_.

Weeks pass, and she tries to banish the thoughts of her. Really, she does. She tries to banish the thoughts of Randvi’s lips, of her skin, of her sweet _words_ , but they’re sticking to her like wax. They’re like a blanket she can’t seem to remove, wrapped around her and keeping her stuck in this rut. When she’s there, the settlement feels empty, and when she’s gone, the open road feels even lonelier.

For a while, not much changes until everything changes at once. Soma. Hunwald. Hjorr. Basim. Sigurd. She feels lighter than she has in a long time, now that it’s all behind them, but the melancholy remains. Her sour mood is disrupted only when Gunnar asks her to officiate his wedding. She might not understand a single word Brigid says, but she can see they’re a good match for each other and their union will definitely lift the spirits of the clan. 

And when they sneak away from the festivities, there it is again.

_I knew that you would make a fitter leader than Sigurd. It was never in his character to lead. It was always within yours._

That beat, that pulse. That surge of something spreading through her blood, her bones, setting alight every nerve in her body on fire. She lets herself indulge in the lightness swelling in her chest and spreading through the rest of her.

* * *

After that, she never stops. Never has to.

The bed smells of summer sweat and pinewood. Delicate wool and linen sheets with the warm, exhilarating scent of _her_ in the pillow if Eivor tucks her face in well enough. The pale amber-colored dawn is trickling into the longhouse through the rafters, the misty morning breeze bringing enough crispness to the air that she snuggles back into the downy comfort of the bed.

A sleepy arm drapes unceremoniously across her waist, followed by a soft thigh between her knees. A chilly nose nuzzles the base of her neck. Eivor lets out a long inhale and a sigh at the feeling, her lips curving into a smile as she drifts again, Randvi’s body a comforting spoon around her.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been floating in and out of sleep, but the wave of pleasure that washes through her from the lazy, stroking hand of Randvi has her arching her back against the sheets. The clouds of sleep haven’t cleared yet, and for a timeless flash of a second, she gets lost in sensation. Fingertips skimming below her bellybutton, tracing the ridges of her ribcage, barely keeping her walloping heart at bay.

“Perfect,” Randvi says, voice soft, lips a whisper against her ear. “You…” Her fingers glide down her side to settle on her waist. “You are perfect.” The thigh wedged between her own lifts and shifts, prompting her legs to spread. Her dazed mind is unable to catch up with her racing thoughts, the only thing she can do is hiss a breath. “So _good_ ,” Randvi’s voice is a rumble against her chest, a sweet fog that keeps her from thinking straight when caught off-guard like this as she places soft kisses along her neck and on the blooming flush on her chest. She listens, drowsily, as the redhead mutters sweets nothings to her.

The light-headedness returns, followed by something sweet and loving. She breathes in her lover’s scent and lets the words wash over her. Her nerves seem to purr as she relaxes into her touch. It still feels so fucking good to hear her say those things. It’s a different kind of pleasure, but pleasure all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On today's episode of "Learn About Norse Culture while Reading Fanfiction:"  
>  _Hrungnir's slayer_ \- Mjölnir, Thor's hammer.  
>  _Skítr_ \- Shit.  
>  _Sorðit_ \- Exclamation like the word ‘fuck’.  
>  _Spear-din_ \- [Kenning](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_kennings) for battle.
> 
> So, I originally wanted this to be just smut, but then this happened. Anygays, Happy New Year!


	7. Scrosciare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like seeing land after being caught in a storm at sea, it feels like… her, gods, it feels like her—she can’t find another word. It feels like home. Their shapes are bathed in moonlight trickling through the rafters, separating them from the cold fog and the rest of the world, leaving them in a realm that’s infinitely better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _scrosciare_ \- the action of rain pouring down or of waves hitting rocks and cliffs.

Like most Norse settlements, Ravensthorpe also has a boathouse. It’s useful for many reasons: it allows for the safe storage of longships during the winter, it makes repairs easier, and it can be used for storing extra sails and paddles. But beyond that, it also comes in handy for _other_ things. On nights like this, Eivor thinks boathouses are the single greatest inventions in all of Midgard.

Sitting on the wooden railing that lines the inside, she waits in the darkness as thunder cracks and lightning flashes ferociously in the sky above. The drumfire in the clouds gets louder by the minute, she’s faintly surprised that it hasn’t started to rain—but then all at once, it does. A torrential downpour that whips against the rafters above her, as if Thor himself had sent the clouds directly over the settlement. A strange vibration causes her to wonder whether it had come from her, or if she was feeling the rumble from outside. But still, she waits, eyes fixed on the large door, ears straining and listening, trying to hear anything that’s not the sound of the sloshing river lapping against the shore, the pounding of raindrops on the roof or the violent snapping of firebolts.

Hours pass and her stomach begins to feel a little uneasy. There’s no way she’d forget, that’s not even a possibility. Something, or someone, must be holding her up. She waits some more, body humming with anticipation as she tries to calm her mind by throwing tiny rocks into the water that seeps in under the door and another agonizing hour drags by.

Her head shoots up when she hears the sound of familiar footsteps making their way around the naust, boots wading through the mud and then the shallow bank of the Nene. Hope and impatience blast her mind clear of the fog that settled over her while she waited. She counts the steps in her head, mouth moving silently at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Then they come to a stop when they reach the door.

Randvi slinks her way in, her cloak pulled tight around her to shield her from the rain. She lowers the wooden latch and bars the door from inside as soon as she enters. Eivor is on her in a second, rising from her position to push her against the planks, kissing her with a fervor that they hadn’t shared in over three moons. It feels like seeing land after being caught in a storm at sea, it feels like… _her_ , gods, it feels like her—she can’t find another word. It feels like home. Their shapes are bathed in moonlight trickling through the rafters, separating them from the cold fog and the rest of the world, leaving them in a realm that’s infinitely better. Her hands find Randvi’s waist and grasp the soaked fabric of her tunic, bunching it in her fist. She holds onto her like she can’t get close enough, like she is her anchor to this plane of existence. She feels her own heartbeat in her neck, rapid and desperate, the flailing of a frightened fish stuck in a net, trying to escape a cruel fate.

When they part, Eivor leans back to get a good look at the redhead. Yes, it’s been three moons, but it felt like an eternity to her.

“I missed you,” Randvi says then and Eivor trembles. For all her practice, she will never get used to Randvi looking at her like that, their faces so close that even under the veil of the night, she can feel those sparkling blue eyes drilling deep into her hugr, unearthing all the weaknesses and failings she would prefer to keep secret. It would be impossible to hide anything from those eyes. She is revealed under her gaze, feels her knees wanting to give out.

Instead of replying with _I missed you so much it felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest_ or something equally as banal and trite, the drengr reaches up to cup Randvi’s face in her hands before leaning forward and slotting their lips together once more. This time, the kiss is slow at first, savoring, and Eivor feels like she’s sinking. Their feet shuffle in the mud, pebbles scrunching under the soles of their boots as they wade further into the obscurity of the boathouse. Their lips glide together and Randvi whines, kisses her harder and with mounting desperation as the drengr pins her against the stack of wooden crates behind them. She presses a kiss to her neck, just below her ear, and breathes in the scent of her.

“Were you worried about me?” she asks slyly with a broad grin, meaning for it to come off light-heartedly; to brush off the weight of the situation.

Randvi chuckles at the question. It’s almost unfair how everything she does gets under Eivor’s skin like it’s nothing at all. She’s her every weakness, no matter what she does, and somehow the drengr thinks Randvi’s entirely aware of that, and that she _loves_ it. “I was, you are our best warrior—we cannot have you die, it would be hard to find someone of your might to replace you,” she teases with mock seriousness. Eivor feigns hurt, dramatically placing a hand over her heart, sticking out her bottom lip and frowning. Randvi laughs and leans in to touch their foreheads together. “Of course I was worried about you, Eivor,” she says in a sincerer tone, brushing her hand along her jawline. “I always am when you are away.”

The admission makes the blonde feel breathless. It makes her feel helplessly in love. But it also makes her feel a profound guilt deep in her bones. Before any distracting thought can form in her mind, Randvi leans up and kisses her; more aggressive, more heated and wanton this time.

“We don’t have long,” the redhead murmurs in between the kisses.

“We don’t need long,” she replies with a confident wink and a smirk. There is a teasing demureness in her tone that is entirely unbefitting of her motives. It’s a lie, though. With her, even eternity wouldn’t be long enough.

Randvi’s answering smile is the most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen. It’s enough to undo her completely as she stares down at her lips, tries to process everything that’s happening. There was a time when she thought being away from her would be easier now that she knew that the love she felt was mutual. But being _this_ far away from her had resulted in a different, unknown sort of craving to surround her at all time. No matter how hard she tried to cast the feeling aside to focus on her actual duties, on finding that bacraut Gorm, an unfathomable fight had started between her mind that knew she had to finish this and her heart that yearned to be back in England. Vinland was unlike any place she had seen before, ravishing landscapes, abundant in beasts to hunt and friendly people to exchange tales with. In any other circumstance, she would’ve taken her time to thoroughly explore that strange and savage land. But the more days passed, the deeper she felt that stifling longing calling her back.

Lightning strikes outside and Eivor snaps out of her daze. The time they have spent apart has taken its toll on her and there’s now a wildfire raging inside her, wanting to make up for lost time.

There’s no time to undress, but that doesn’t stop her from yanking at Randvi’s tunic to weasel her hand underneath, her fingers ghosting over the slightly wet skin. It’s probably wrinkling the fabric beyond all respectability, but Eivor can’t bring herself to care. The belt buckle gives in to her skilled fingers within mere seconds as she pulls her closer. Her lover nods with a notion of consent, her fingers digging into the drengr’s hips with an almost bruising power.

The storm outside continues to rumble, just like the one in Eivor’s heart. She can smell the freshness that comes with rain as it mingles pleasantly with the woody musk of the boathouse and the heady scent of _them_. She pushes past the loosened waist of Randvi’s breeches and starts with one finger, then quickly moves to two, then three, thrusting in a steady rhythm that the redhead quickly matches with the movement of her hips.

“Eivor—”

Eivor loves hearing her name. No one speaks her name with such gentleness, such happiness, such unrestrained _love_. Outside their trysts, neither of them are allowed to be emotional. She’s a hardy drengr, Randvi is a level-headed diplomat and strategist. They are their roles, but here, in this distant, hidden corner of reality, they can cast all of that aside. She can taste the freedom on Randvi’s lips.

“There…” Randvi moans, trashing against that dexterous hand of hers. Eivor can feel all her nerves bunching and scrunching together. Something is building inside of her and with every movement it ventures nearer. That’s when she feels Randvi’s fingers enter her. She didn’t even notice her own belt sliding off her hips. _Fuck_. Suddenly, everything snaps into sharp focus. Were she not this preoccupied, she would probably laugh at how comical she must look with her breeches pooling around her knees. She bites her lip and involuntarily jerks her hips forward, realizing that her resolve not to be loud—nobody should have any business in the boathouse at this hour, but one can never be too careful—would be much harder than she anticipated. Perhaps if she times them right, thunder will break at the perfect moment and swallow her moans.

There is something about the way Randvi’s hips roll against her fingers that makes her feel weightless. Each rocking motion is a plea and she gladly obeys them, “There— _yes_ —harder—” This must be what living among the gods must be like, she thinks as Randvi bites down on her neck. This feeling of floating without a tether. All she wants is to make Randvi float with her.

Eivor feels her breathing becoming more and more labored, feels herself tiring but she is enchanted and spellbound by this ravishing woman. The same feeling as being at sea for a long time and forgetting what it means to walk on land. Everything seems to sway, as if she can still feel the ebb and flow of waves beneath her feet. But it’s much more than the feeling of water between her toes, knocking her back forth and the feeling saturates itself into every pore. She’s impatient now, dizzy with the anticipation of her lover’s peak. Sometimes—more often than not, in all honesty—she desires it more than release for herself.

It’s the press of Eivor’s teeth against her pulse that does it, or maybe the way she skims her fingers against the tight heat wrapped around her, or the firm stroke of her thumb. Either way, Randvi arches hard against her with a choked cry, thighs closing around the drengr’s wrist. She carries her through it before letting herself even think about succumbing to the rush of her own peak. She lets her breathe for a moment when her hips still—heavy, ragged breaths as Eivor stares at her in the darkness and thinks about everything she’d been missing out on in the past few moons and in the many years before that.

For now, there are just the two of them—no past, no future, just the present. Just her pleasure fueled by her lover’s, and the soft sighs mixed with moans that fill the boathouse until she can’t hold back anymore and stumbles forward. Eivor buries her face in Randvi’s neck as she comes, hips bucking forwards, legs trembling under her, the fingers of her free hand digging into the crates behind them as she gasps for air and quakes, leaving nail-shaped indentations in the wood.

She’s on fire with it, every muscle tensing, and her hand is moving again before she’s even done, somehow summoning the will to bring Randvi with her once more even as she soars higher. Her pride would never allow her to stop; she has something to prove.

Her efforts earn her a breathy laugh. “Aren’t you done yet?” Randvi asks, shaking her head. Locks of red hair cling to her cheek, her blue eyes tender.

“Never.” Eivor’s voice is soft, barely audible over the thumping of the rain. As if afraid that if she spoke any louder, the moment would break and she wants to live in this moment for a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a girl just needs to write smut ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also... the way I walked around Ravensthorpe for half an hour to find places where they could fuck... I'm not proud of it.


	8. Balter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not a proper dance by any means; both are laughing too hard to even be able to control what they’re doing, but somehow it’s wonderful and just right. This strange, uncoordinated way they’ve tangled their limbs, the heated breaths that are fogging up the air around them, the warmth that fills Randvi’s whole body even though the night is starting to turn chilly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _balter_ \- to dance gracelessly, but with enjoyment.

The last weeks of winter are fast approaching, and as the harshness of the cold season prepares to give way to the rebirth of nature, a sudden flurry of activity hits Ravensthorpe. Early in the morning, the settlement is already buzzing with anticipation for the Ostara festivities, and its people—mostly the children—look forward to celebrating the arrival of spring. The shops and huts are all decorated with garlands made out of vines, leaves and flowers, painted eggs are hanging from the large oak tree in front of the longhouse and the light breeze carries with it the smell of rabbit stew and honey cake.

The joyful voices of children fill the village as they busy themselves with straws from the stables, scraps of cloth that were discarded by Mayda and paint they borrowed from Holger. The adults go on with their lives as the evening feast approaches, enjoying the day off from their duties. By early afternoon, music from the lyres, horns and flutes starts to pick up as revelers from the neighboring smaller encampments begin to arrive—a tradition by now. Most women are dressed in colorful robes, meticulously made flower-crowns adorning their heads as they chatter and organize the tables around the already lit bonfire, while the men are placing bets on whose child is going to catch the rabbit first and discuss the number of ways they are planning to honor the goddess of fertility later. There is merry laughter ringing all around the settlement, hovering over chattering heads and resting between bellies full of ale.

Randvi has barely seen Eivor all day, but then again, she is the Jarl, and as Jarl, she is always busy some way or another, even more so during festivities. She is more than willing to lend a helping hand to Vili and Birna, carrying benches and tables to the clearing that serves as the festival grounds, gathering more branches for the bonfire, advising Tekla whether the mead is too sweet or not sweet enough, even joining the children in their hunt for eggs, and helping them hang the carefully decorated ones on the highest trees. When she does manage to get a glimpse of the drengr, or maybe even share a knowing smile across the crowd, her heart swells with love as she smirks back at her; with the smirk that’s reserved just for her.

When the sun finally sets and the only two activates left to partake in are brawling and drinking (or both at the same time), she retires to the longhouse, enjoying a quiet conversation with Gunnar and Brigid about what the new season might bring for the settlement and the clan. Eivor was right, she does like the woman, enjoys conversing with her about their different cultures and the intricacies of their languages.

Then there’s a loud thud coming from near the entrance.

“Randvi!” Her name echoes through the fairly quiet longhouse, the sound bouncing back from the wooden walls as she turns in her seat. And there’s Eivor, wandering over in her direction, ale sloshing from the jug in her hand as she struggles to keep it balanced. Eivor is dazed. No, dazed is an understatement. She’s obviously drunk and by the looks of her, it’s a miracle in itself that she’s managed to say her name somewhat coherently. She’s staggering and tripping with almost every step, having to push herself off the nearest pillar or table to keep herself upright as she stumbles her way to the table they’re sitting at.

Eivor stops for a moment and looks her up and down, smirking. She takes another pull on her drink before focusing her gaze back on Randvi’s eyes. Or more accurately, _trying_ to focus her gaze.

“You’re hot!” The blonde nearly screams before plopping down in the seat next to her and wrapping her arms around the redhead, seemingly completely unaware of the blacksmith and his wife sitting right there. Randvi blushes a shade she was not aware she could attain naturally.

The blacksmith wants to laugh, but chokes on his drink instead.

“Mor ramantus iawn,” Brigid exclaims with a giggle as she pats her husband’s back with force, trying to soothe the coughs and help him breathe again.

“What are you doing in here?” Eivor manages to ask before a hiccup bubbles from her throat. To be fair, Randvi is not sure; old habits die hard is her best guess, or perhaps she’s just getting too old to spend the whole day drinking. “Come and join the feast.” Another hiccup. “As Jarl, I will not allow my— _my_ _wife_ —to miss out on the fun! Come and dance!”

Randvi laughs and lets the fact that they’re most certainly not married slide. “The ale sure is starting to get to you, huh?” She giggles, coiling herself in Eivor’s arms in an attempt to support her weight and keep her upright.

It has been a long time since Randvi danced; really danced. She remembers the feasts and the celebrations of the Reindeer Clan, long before she was married off to Sigurd. That Randvi is a young girl from another life, another time, and she has all but forgotten her in the years she spent strategizing by the alliance table. Not that she particularly enjoyed dancing; not because she didn’t like the music – it was simply because she wasn’t very good at it. She rather watched others do it instead of joining them.

“You know I don’t like dancing, Eivor,” she murmurs as she takes the already half-empty jug from Eivor’s hand and takes a sip herself before putting it far enough so that she can’t reach it.

“Come on, Randvi,” Eivor begs as she stands and tugs on her hand. “Just once dance?”

Randvi hesitates and studies Eivor’s pleading expression with a raised eyebrow. But before she can protest any further, Eivor is pulling her up and she’s saying goodbye to Gunnar and his wife. They stagger through the longhouse into the balmy spring evening and in the next moment, Randvi finds herself standing in the midst of many dancing and swaying figures, their movements matching the rhythm of the music. There is Eivor right in front of her, her smile so bright it rivals the blazing bonfire. Her golden braid is flopping softly against her shoulder with the frisky motions of her body and the end of her cobalt, ceremonial tunic whirls swiftly as she twirls. Her hands grip Randvi’s to bring her to dance and with a sigh, she slowly allows herself to sink more into the catchy melody, feet moving, albeit still a bit unsurely.

“That’s—that’s what I like to see!” Eivor cheers loudly, earning a bright grin. Even though her moves are clumsy and anything but graceful, Randvi can’t help but take in the sight. Her broad shoulders are shaking, her hips are swinging inelegantly and there’s a wide smile on her lips. Randvi lets her gaze travel over her beaming, reddened face and shiny skin.

It’s not a proper dance by any means; both are laughing too hard to even be able to control what they’re doing, but somehow it’s wonderful and just _right_. This strange, uncoordinated way they’ve tangled their limbs, the heated breaths that are fogging up the air around them, the warmth that fills Randvi’s whole body even though the night is starting to turn chilly. Eivor is trying to get even closer to her with each step and the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed, nor does it go unreciprocated. They get particularly close when Bragi, who truly has had one too many, makes his way past them with all the grace of a mountain troll—an inconsiderate, drunk mountain troll at that.

Now Randvi takes the lead and spins the drengr once, twice, three times until tears of laughter roll down her cheeks that Randvi can’t help but kiss away. Eivor gets her revenge a moment later when she seizes the redhead, dipping her low and refusing to bring her back up. Randvi can hear some of the clansmen around them hoot and cheer and whistle in response, but they sound distant. In this moment, it feels like everything is falling away and it’s just the two of them.

Song after song plays; some she knows, some—mostly the Saxon ones—she doesn’t, and Eivor is currently whirling her in circles through the huddle of people, grinning brightly at her. Randvi feels dizzy, her gaze focused on the ecstatic face in front of her. She lets herself get lost in the melodies and the buzz of the crowd, her feet now moving without her even noticing, without her even thinking. But then Eivor trips and they almost fall over, only stopped by Vili’s broad backside. The raider barely flinches at the contact, but Randvi shoots him an apologetic look nonetheless. The man just laughs, his mind no doubt just as addled with ale as Eivor’s. 

“Slow down, my love, you can barely stand,” Randvi says with a laugh as they compose themselves.

Eivor looks at her, her brows narrowing. “I’m still better than you,” she tells her, each word and syllable blurring together until it’s a single _‘mstillbettathanyou_.

“No, you are not!” Randvi argues instantly, her expression showing nothing but surprise and amusement. Eivor’s hands travel from her waist up along her sides, making her shiver, then she lays them on top of Randvi’s shoulders to steady herself. Randvi swears she feels fingertips burning and digging all so softly in the flesh at the base of her neck, making her skin tingle and prickle.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Eivor slurs. “You nearly tripped like…” she trails off for a moment, blinking with intention as she tries to decide on the number. “Three times,” she finishes, a cheeky and proud smirk tugging at her lips.

“Well, you _did_ trip and you have stepped on my feet like a dozen times,” Randvi replies defensively, but they never stop swaying, hips hurling in circles, feet moving, the music flowing like the blood in their veins, the soles of their boots kicking up dust from the ground.

“Now, that’s not—you’re just over… overstating.” The cocky grin turns into a warm smile and Randvi can’t do anything but smile back at her dance partner. Clearly, neither of them are good dancers, but it doesn’t matter, barely anyone around them is. Most are too drunk to tell. All are having far too good of a time to care.

The song ends abruptly on a high pitched note from the panpipe, and then shifts to something slower. The people around them slip into an uncomplicated swaying and the children scurry off, uninterested in dances that aren’t about bouncing. Eivor finally pulls Randvi into her arms and eventually, they settle into their own rhythm, as the always do and always will. In dance, life or love, moving to a song only they can hear. It’s nice to see how easily they move together, how they can predict one another’s movements.

Randvi leans in and presses a quick peck to the drengr’s lips before saying, “You were right. It is fun.” She can feel her cheeks burning as Eivor’s hand brushes just a little lower on her back, but she can no longer tell if the redness is out of embarrassment, the dancing or arousal. Probably all three.

Eivor only hums in return, closing her eyes with a small smile. Randvi watches her, studying her face when Eivor kisses her again, more passionate this time. It’s been almost a year now, but Randvi wonders if there will ever come a time when she won’t feel this dizzying rush of excitement when they show their love in public.

“Randvi…” Her name is nothing but a whisper on Eivor’s lips when they part. “I want you—” A hiccup. “I want you to plow me—” she finishes, unflinching and dead serious, the words articulated clearer than anything she’s said before.

Randvi quickly snaps a hand on her mouth in shock to shut her up. She’s absolutely mortified as she looks around them with a quick turn of her head, desperately hoping that nobody heard whatever _that_ was.

“You fool,” she says, but there’s no annoyance in her voice, nor can she restrain the smile on her face as Eivor presses a kiss to her palm. Gods, she’s lucky that Randvi loves her. “You absolute, drunken buffoon.” She begins to laugh, slow breathy laughs which turn hysterical. She slides her hand from her mouth to her cheek as she looks up at her, eyes gleaming with utter adoration and then presses another chaste kiss to her lips. “Come,” she urges as her hand slides down Eivor’s arm, intertwining their fingers and leading her away from the crowd. “If that is your only wish...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I really should write some angst now.  
> Me: *Writes whatever this is.*
> 
> Anyways, is this historically accurate? Probably not. Do I have a clue about how Vikings danced? Absolutely not. Did I just want an excuse to write drunk gay mess Eivor? Yes. But you can read about the festival of Ostara [here](http://thepaganjourney.weebly.com/ostara.html).
> 
> Also, according to Reddit, Brigid is speaking Welsh, so I went with modern Welsh for her one-line guest spot. Blame Google Translate if it's incorrect... I'm not including the translation here to give you an authentic gameplay experience :)


	9. Pyrrhic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eivor wakes, slick with sweat and feels her heart pounding hard against her chest. The night is quiet around her, only the soft sound of the wind rustling the leaves outsides stirs the air. The sound is soothing, drowning out some of the things she doesn’t want to hear from inside her own skull. But not all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _pyrrhic_ \- won at too great a cost.

_Will this all be worth it in the end?_ She remembers Guthrum asking. _Everything we have sacrificed to win this land?_ Eivor doesn’t know, but what she does know is what he meant by dreaming of soot-black furrowed earth and blood seeping from seedlings, poisoning their future.

She tosses beneath her covers, visions of her own deathless death flashing before her for what feels like the hundredth time. It isn’t the demise that grips her allies, her _friends_ in its claws, no. It’s far worse. A limbo. She stands in the middle of the burning village and watches the people around her get slaughtered, one after the other. Darkness. Suffering. Loss. Eivor screams when the sword cuts through Soma’s chest with appalling ease, sees the spark in her eyes dimming as she exhales her last breath. Soma is dead. Soma is dead and Eivor isn’t and it all feels like it’s her fault. Then her eyes catch Ljufvina’s pained expression gazing upon her husband’s limp body. She turns away, but there’s Hunwald, dying. For her. Because of her. Eivor would’ve been happy and willing to sacrifice herself if it meant the Anglo-boy could’ve returned to his beloved and she wouldn't have had to watch Swanburrow’s heart break into a thousand pieces right in front of her. She wants to scream louder, cry, do something, _anything_. But she can’t, because she’s trapped in this smoldering vision, silent and rooted in the charred ground, a spectator to the events of the past. She hopes beyond hope that those who have fallen will somehow forgive her in the end, but how could they… how could she even consider—

The dreams are always similar, but never quite the same. They start the same way, with her exiting the church and throwing herself into the heat and chaos of battle, but they always unfurl differently. The one constant thing is that she always survives and the people she loves perish, their bodies turning to ash before their severed parts even touch the ground. Somehow, the torment of reliving all that has passed is not enough and she witnesses deaths that never happened, her subconscious painting the scenes in agonizingly perfect detail. It’s always someone different, or worse: all of them at once. Sigurd, Gunnar, even the children, and Randvi…

Randvi.

Eivor’s heart skips a beat.

She stands, sick with terror, unable to tear her eyes away from the horrific sight that haunts her relentlessly. Eivor sees a shadowy figure rush over to Randvi, sees genuine fear blazing in her eyes. This time, there’s a brutal slash across her neck, too soon for her to react, and she collapses. Other times, there’s a spear piercing through her chest or a dagger cutting into her abdomen. Eivor’s heart catches in her throat as she watches her crumple to the blood-soaked ground; lifeless, glassy blue eyes boring into hers before disintegrating into nothing but cinder. Bile rises in her throat and she feels utterly nauseated.

_Was it all worth it?_

She can’t breathe. The panic sweeps through her bones like the fire spreads through what remains of Chippenham. Seeing herself die a thousand illusory deaths is one thing, but seeing Randvi die is too much. The air feels like it’s being sucked out of her lungs, and Eivor struggles with each breath. She knows she has to wake up, has to shake herself out of it…

_No, no, no, no, she doesn’t deserve this. I am the one who deserves to die._

Eivor wakes, slick with sweat and feels her heart pounding hard against her chest. The night is quiet around her, only the soft sound of the wind rustling the leaves outside stirs the air. The sound is soothing, drowning out some of the things she doesn’t want to hear from inside her own skull.

But not all.

She has always been good at ignoring bad things. Growing up like she did, she had to learn how to, because there was too much _bad_ and if she didn’t put some of it clear out of her mind, she’d have drowned in it by now. Some people do, drown in it and never resurface again, or they try to forget it by drowning themselves in something else; mead, ale, the thrill of battle or something worse. But Eivor had learned to fix the things that were right in front of her, the ones she could fix—like having food in her belly, shelter over her head, and peace among her people—and put the rest away. Especially the things where there’s no fixing. Like dreams.

But these nightmares are getting harder and harder to put away and forget about. They seep into her very being, like swampy mud into her boots, stinking and crinkling and cold.

She’s no stranger to nightmares, never was. In her sleep, she is often nine winters old again, powerless and begging and hating herself for just standing there. Her dreams of her childhood are vivid enough to cause a visceral reaction, but they are the easiest to recover from. Yes, those dreams are horrible and make her sick to her stomach, but at least they are predictable. She knows how they would end. She knows they would be over as soon as she wakes up and opens her eyes. Now, the dreams that take her back to Hamtunscire are somehow much, much worse. Even when she wakes and takes in her surroundings, she can’t shake off the visions of her friends lying dead. With these terrors, it’s as if she knows she is having a nightmare, but it doesn’t mean she can stop them. No matter how bad she wants to be able to control herself and stand up for the present, the past is very much draining into the now and there’s nothing she can do. Even the safety of Ravensthorpe, Sýnin keeping watch over the longhouse and Mouse guarding her room are not enough to quell the anguish in her mind. Not anymore.

A few minutes pass and adrenaline is still pumping through her veins. At this point, sleep is only a pipe dream. Eivor feels like she’s stuck in the nightmare, because she’s awake now and sitting up in her bed, breathing heavily, but she’s still frightened. She knows she was crying in her sleep. She knows she was crying and screaming and she _knows_ not all of her friends have succumbed on that cursed day, but gods, in the suffocating darkness of the night, it sure does feel like she’s the only person left alive in all of Midgard.

 _Was it all worth it?_ That’s the only thing Eivor can ask in her cold, barely lit room, lying underneath a fur blanket that tickles her skin in the worst way. Is she still fit to be jarl? Are her commands truly worthy of her warriors’ sacrifices? Will the clan still be willing to follow someone as broken as her? Consciously, she knows that even in the best of circumstances sacrifices have to be made for the greater good, whatever that is, but she’s constantly haunted by red. Blood and pain and screams and death. They won’t stop, and Eivor begins to think that they never will.

“Eivor…?” The voice is thin and reedy, and she has to strain her ears to hear it. Randvi is standing right there in her doorway, barefoot and wearing nothing but a nightshirt, just the way she has been standing there on most nights in the past however many days since Eivor’s return, concern written all over her face. She takes a step closer. “Again?”

The blonde lifts her head and nods. “Randvi, you don’t have to—” Eivor tries to say, the dark circles under her eyes make it seem like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. It’s probably close to the truth. But what jars Randvi the most about the scene before her is the utter vulnerability on the drengr’s face.

Tired blue eyes follow Randvi as she crosses the room and sits on the bed. Eivor sucks in a full breath at last and lets the hopeless relief take her. She sits up further, rests her elbows on her knees and tries to hold back a sob. Randvi squeezes her hand gently in the flickering warmth of the candle. Eivor feels lightheaded with all the comfort that pulses through her, and feels the overwhelming urge to cry, because she’d been so fucking scared and she’s never been that _terrified_ not even when—

Randvi shifts so that she sits cross legged and faces Eivor fully, then raises both her hands to cup her face. Her eyes widen when she feels the tears streaking Eivor’s cheeks, but thankfully, she doesn’t comment on them. Instead, the concern in her expression only deepens. Eivor is suddenly at a loss for words as the intimacy of the situation hits her. Randvi sweeps her hand over the side of her face, her fingertips whisper soft against her scar. She brushes away the tussled, sweaty blonde strands of hair that cling to her face, her hand coming to rest against the side of her neck. Eivor’s lips part when she feels Randvi’s thumb brush over the corner of her mouth, and she lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Fuck. Eivor shouldn’t have looked at her. The barely twinkling candlelight makes Randvi’s eyes glow in the dim room. She looks so surreal, and Eivor’s chest clenches as she wonders if she is truly awake after all. Sometimes, she still doesn’t seem real. Sometimes, Eivor still has a hard time believing that she actually has her in whatever way this is. So, she reaches out and runs her fingers along her lover’s chin, needing to feel that she is really there. Randvi stays perfectly still, feeling as real as ever beneath calloused fingertips.

Suddenly, sitting beside Randvi is not enough. She needs to touch, to hold, to reassure herself that this is real, and Randvi is fine, and that it was all just an infernal dream. Pushing forward, Eivor presses her still wet face into her chest and wraps her into a crushing embrace. She burrows herself as far as she can into the other woman, this beautiful, trusting, comforting woman who means the most in this world of nothings. Eivor breathes raggedly against her, not even trying to get herself under control anymore, crying into the hollow between her neck and her shoulder.

She lets herself cry, truly cry, for the first time in years, tears falling for the people who became her closest allies in this strange and foreign land; for Soma, who had fought fiercely by her side every time she called upon her, for Hunwald, who considered her his truest friend and look where he ended up because of that, for Hjorr, who just wanted to protect his wife. She lets Randvi pull her gently into her arms and sobs into her shoulder as everything finally washes over her and suddenly she’s crying for everyone and everything that has happened over the past three decades. She cries for all the death she has seen, the deaths of the people who had been her whole heart. She cries for young Ceolbert, for Dag, for Ubba and she cries for her father and mother, who had been the first ones of them all, whose deaths had started her list.

It’s embarrassing, or at least it should be. Eivor feels mildly fazed, but tonight she’s so far beyond caring that she doesn’t even move as she feels Randvi move up on the bed so that they're more comfortably lying against the pillows. On some distant plane of consciousness, she experienced what it’s like to lose her, and any and all embarrassment pales in comparison to that terror. So, she clings for all she’s worth, ignoring Randvi’s hesitant, “Eivor…?”

Randvi lets her cry until all her tears are dried up. They tangle together on the bed, Eivor with her knees pulled to her chest and face pressed to Randvi’s shoulder, her arms around her neck. The redhead wraps consoling arms around her whole body, chin resting on her forehead, cradling her as her breathing calms.

Eivor peeks at her shyly, now slightly ashamed of the tears.

“Sorry,” she mutters, pushing away from her a little and trying to reorient herself. Randvi brushes her fingers over her cheeks again, wiping the last of the tears away.

“For what?” She asks, her voice full of sincerity.

 _I spend every night watching you die,_ Eivor thinks. _Every night, Randvi, do you know what that feels like? Pierced by swords and arrows or burned to death or sometimes a sinkhole just opens wide on the battlefield and eats you up, gulp and gone, do you know what that feels like? And I’m always there and I’m always watching, but I can never do anything, just scream and scream and run at the Saxon dogs or the pit and if I cannot save you then it can swallow me too—_

It takes her a moment to find her voice. When she does, it comes out coarse and thick. “I… in the dream, I saw Soma and Hjorr and Hunwald and… gods, Randvi, I saw _you_ and I couldn’t… I’m sorry.” Her breath hitches on those last words so that they come out as a shameful whisper, full of pain Eivor can’t even begin to put to words.

Randvi holds onto her tightly for what felt like an eternity, whispering words of comfort, her hand soothing along her side, rubbing gentle circles into the skin as this mighty warrior soaks her nightshirt. “You should see Valka. You cannot go on like this,” Randvi offers after a few heavy moments and pulls her in even closer, pressing a small, soothing kiss over her forehead.

Eivor tenses. She doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to learn what it means to see the one she loves the most die a gruesome death night after night and what it might foretell. Valka’s words ring loud and clear in her ear. _Though this battle you may win, this war you will not. Your foe will be your master; your hope will be your grief._

Her voice breaks before she can say something, her eyes welling up again before she snaps them away from Randvi and slams her jaw shut. If she had any more tears they would’ve fallen now. It’s quiet for several beats as Eivor tries to control her breathing and Randvi watches.

“Is there anything I can do to help, my love?” the redhead asks at last.

“You already helped, Randvi,” she answers with a weighted sigh, then plants a soft kiss onto the dip where her collarbone meets her neck.

Randvi nods and she’s silent for a long moment. Not saying a word as she rubs a trembling hand over Eivor’s face.

“Stay?” It’s barely a whisper, and if Randvi was any farther from her, she would never have heard the hushed plea. Eivor doesn't care who might see them. In fact, let them. She’s not strong enough to deny herself the warmth and solace of the other woman’s presence anymore. Randvi doesn’t answer, but instead offers a small smile and pulls the sheets around them, closes the world away. Eivor visibly relaxes, her shoulders slowly lowering from their tense position, her jaw flexing at a much slower rate and her fingers slowing in their mindless fidgeting with the neckline of Randvi’s tear-soaked shift.

She hides her face in her lover’s neck, beneath her chin and twines their legs together while draping an arm across her waist. Randvi tightens her hold around her in return, fingers sliding up her back to tangle in the loose hair at the base of her neck, to keep her head just there, close against her. The only sounds are their breaths against the other, and the steady beating of their hearts; hearing the synchronic rhythms is the greatest comfort now and it slowly reminds Eivor that they are here, safe and contented.

Eivor closes her eyes, surrendering to the weariness dragging her down. She falls asleep warm, without a thought of slain bodies or burned villages. For the first time in a while, she sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped in the arms of the woman she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eivor: *is a boss ass bitch who could kill literally anyone*  
> Eivor: *has a dream about losing Randvi*  
> Eivor: *A Mess™*
> 
> Anygays, I love clichés and tropes and tough characters needing to be comforted, so here you have ~this~.


	10. Rubatosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sharing body heat is the best, most reliable way to soak up as much heat as possible. And heat is what they both need now. It isn’t a big deal, nothing worth more than a few lighthearted jests if anyone learned about this—She knows there is no need to rationalize it, but it still doesn’t stop the red flush from appearing on her face. Eivor Wolf-Kissed, mighty drengr, known for her courage and might, is now embarrassed about being so near a naked woman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _rubatosis_ \- the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.

If all had gone according to the plan, they’d be in Nottfall right now, out of the woods and mountains, safely tucked away in the encampment’s alehouse, not necessarily enjoying the hospitality—it was still enemy territory, after all—, but passing time in circumstances that were undoubtedly far more pleasant than their current situation. The weather had turned on them and, admittedly, Eivor had underestimated just how much the sudden drop in the already brisk temperature and the gathering of dark clouds would affect their journey. Normally, the cold wasn’t much a problem, it was an inherent part of life among the fjords, after all. But had they known they would be spending an extended period of time in a damn snowstorm, they would’ve simply delayed the journey. It was supposed to be a one-day trek on horseback, a simple diplomacy mission just to see where they stand with their closest neighboring settlement. Get there, negotiate (let Randvi do the talking while Eivor herself lingers in the corner, looking intimidating, that is…), spend the night, get out.

Turns out, the gods had other plans.

Eivor is a drengr through and through; her time spent sailing on the high seas and adventuring in the wilderness means her knowledge of weather is learned, not an inalienable part of her. She sees from the shifting skies that there is snow on the way. She doesn’t know, however, that the snow will come in the form of a fast-moving blizzard, nor can she do a gods damned thing about it. They’re a little over halfway to Nottfall when it hits, with winds violent enough to shake the trees and shriek between the towering peaks. Immediately, Eivor can tell there is no way they’re going to make it to their destination. She judges that they have a few hours of daylight left to find shelter, just enough time to start ascending the ridge if they hurry.

The light dusting soon turns into a heavy fall, the wind whipping it at them at high speed and painting the landscape in washed out whites and greys. The flakes are ice cold and heavy enough to be instantly soaking through their armor, all the way to their bones. But they push on until the half-light of the late afternoon starts to settle over them. Their horses are scantily staggering forward, barely able to see through the snowfall as their riders clutch the reins tighter.

Just over the sound of the wind, Eivor hears Sýnin cawing as she circles above them in the flurry. “Aid me, be my eyes!” she calls out when the bird dives lower, her streamlined body struggling for balance as she beckons the riders to follow.

The raven leads them off the beaten path, into the trees and through the shrubbery until they come upon what seems to be a rather grim looking shack. Eivor looks around, squinting against the fat, swirling snowflakes and figures here is probably no worse than anywhere else or out in the blizzard. They haven’t come across anything resembling shelter in hours, but the cold is too bitter for them to stay outside any longer and this hut seems decent enough and abandoned enough to wait out the night’s storm and continue fresh in the morning.

Blue eyes quickly scan through the area for any signs of danger as they approach the shack, only to find that it had, indeed, been abandoned—rather long ago, by the looks of it. They slide off their horses and hitch them to the decaying stable not far off from the abode. Gods willing, the structure will last one more night. Making haste then, they grab their saddlebags and dart for the door.

Sýnin lets out a high-pitched croak before disappearing in the surrounding dense forest.

“Should be safe enough here,” Eivor observes and shoves the door shut as best as she can, sliding the wooden latch in place with a scrape, but there’s still a narrow gap letting ice-cold air flow inside freely. Given the state of the whole hut, though, the fact that it has a door is already an unexpected miracle in itself and she isn’t about to complain.

Instead, she grabs her braid and begins wringing out the water that saturated it, while Randvi undoes her ponytail, shaking the water out of her hair. Eivor can only remember a handful of occasions when she’s seen her hair down and she falters when the urge to run her hands through the locks hits her. Without the ponytail to contain it all, Randvi’s hair is a mass of dark, rich red that cascades down her back, thick and unruly and wild. The small braids by her temple are still present; a small but comforting familiarity.

Eivor’s blush is hot and swift and merciless. It takes her a moment to collect herself before she clears her throat, “We should look around.”

* * *

Their brief search of the place turns up an accumulation of ancient rubbish and a few knick-knacks, none of which can be considered particularly useful when it comes to surviving a blizzard. Besides the hearth, the single-room shack boasts a table, a boarded-up window, a single-three legged stool, and a bed stretched along one wall.

“It would almost be cozy,” Randvi speaks behind her while Eivor struggles to spark a fire with the pieces of wood she managed to break off from the barely intact table. “If not for the dirt, the dust, the very large spider population, the freezing temperature and the way the walls shake at every gust of wind... Very homey. It’s a wonder there was no one up here enjoying the amenities.”

Eivor snorts, but doesn’t respond, too busy trying to get a flame to catch.

“I’m afraid there is only one bed, though,” Randvi adds and there is far too much amusement in her voice for Eivor’s liking, or sanity... And it’s not like she herself hadn’t noticed. It was, in fact, the very first thing she noticed.

She mumbles something under her breath and redirects her attention to the task at hand, trying to hide the blush she feels creeping up on the sides of her neck. Although the splinters aren’t damp, thankfully, her wrists are already starting to tire from the repetitive motion. When it finally catches flame, the odds and ends—twigs, pieces of paper and cloth—she has found earlier burn well enough and in a few minutes, with careful tending, there’s a decent fire going in the hearth and freezing to death during the night is now slightly less likely.

Eivor chances a glance behind her then, and in all the hundreds of ways she has imagined seeing Randvi undress, this scenario was very much _not_ among them. Under any other circumstance, Eivor would want to savor the sight of Randvi removing her armor and clothing, but now speed is of the essence; she knows that the longer she stays in her wet clothes, the more likely it is that she’ll be afflicted by the cold. There is an inky purpleness playing about her lips and eyes that Eivor hadn’t noticed before. The drengr furrows her brows and tries to push the worrisome thoughts aside as she blows gently at the flames, feeling heat rush through her body that is wholly unrelated to the burgeoning fire.

“You should get out of your wet garments, too, Eivor,” Randvi chimes, snapping Eivor out of her daze.

This time, when she turns to her, Eivor finds her wrapped in a fur blanket, covering all but bare knees, legs and feet. She is draping her wet clothes over the end of the bed, in the hope that they might dry by morning.

“Right. I—of course.”

Eivor stands and finds a nail on the wall, she hangs up her cloak, then divests herself of her chestplate, bracers, tunic and boots. After a moment, she removes her breeches and wool socks as well; feet that are bare, but dry, are vastly preferable to wet and frozen ones. Leaving herself in her sark, she focuses on arranging her socks near the hearth where they would be sure to dry quickly, rather than on the woman moving around the small space behind her. Of course, she had seen her in less than this before – the memory she joined her in the sauna won’t be leaving her any time soon – but this feels exceedingly more intimate now, as if she was witnessing something she wasn’t supposed to. In her daydreams, this might have been a bit, dare she say, _romantic_. Not the location, exactly, or even the situation, but the idea of the two of them, alone together. If only she hadn’t accepted a long time ago that her fantasies would never be reality.

Eivor starts fiddling with her sark then, desperately needing something to do with her hands. Needing to do anything, really, to distract her from her essentially naked companion. In the end, the only thing she can do is strip down the last of her garments, which she does with trembling, clumsy fingers—‘ _It’s the cold,_ ’ she tells herself—, her heart beating out a violent, chaotic rhythm in her chest the entire time.

* * *

Randvi takes a thin, decrepit piece of animal skin from the bed and gives it a shake before dragging it to the floor and settling on top of it by the fire. With a shuddering sigh, Eivor moves and sits next to her, knees tucked up against her chest, arms wrapped tight around her legs, her back against the rickety cot where one of them will probably sleep, clearly too small for both; Eivor expects she’ll end up on the ground, wrapped in nothing but her half-dried cloak and the skin they’re sitting on.

The redhead unwraps the fur from around herself and shuffles closer to her, draping it over the drengr so that it can cover them both. Involuntarily, Eivor flinches slightly at her proximity.

Even after all the time they spent together, Eivor is still floored every time Randvi lets on that she _cares_. It shouldn’t surprise her anymore, but Randvi’s usually so good at hiding behind a mask of stoicism and indifference that it’s hard to take these moments for granted. Eivor tries very hard to focus in on that bit, because if she doesn’t, she’ll be thinking about Randvi’s soft, warm body next to hers – the way their shoulders are pressed together, the way her skin burns where their hips are touching – which is something she’s been trying very hard not to think about for… a long time. With varying success.

“You are cold, do not try to act all tough.” Randvi rolls her eyes and huffs a laugh. “It’s just me, Eivor. I do not bite. Well, hardly ever.”

Eivor can’t stop her eyes widening at the words. Surely, this must be some kind of test from the gods, meant to keep her in line or teach her a lesson for having improper thoughts about her soon-to-be sister-in-law. She swallows before drawing nearer, letting Randvi tuck the blanket more firmly around her, her hand brushing Eivor’s shoulder where she holds onto the prickling fur.

For a long time, they don’t move. The wind whistles clean and empty outside, against the trees and rocks, the last of the light dimming until it’s nothing but darkness; the snow thickening with each passing minute. The rigid tension eases out of Eivor’s body only a little by little, and when the last of it goes, she is trembling against Randvi. The other woman is trembling, too. It has gotten warm enough in the shack that Eivor can smell them both: the stink of wet fabric and biting unease. Randvi’s arm is around her; she is still holding her.

When Randvi reaches for Eivor’s saddlebags, she tries not to think too hard about how she instantly misses her closeness for those few moments. Randvi pokes through bag to see if there’s anything they can eat and if it was anybody else, Eivor would be a lot more bothered about someone going through her belongings, but they had been working so closely with one another for the past several moons that neither of them really have any possessions that the other one hasn’t at least seen.

“Bread?” she hears her ask and Randvi tosses her a bun before she can reply. “May as well make a proper feast of it. Though it would be a shame to disturb the spiders.”

Eivor smirks. She lo—she enjoys seeing this side of her. Not the impassive, stolid and cynical side that she always keeps on around the clan. This side of her that’s playful and lighthearted, and… _beautiful_. Eivor’s smile grows, she hugs her knees a little tighter and rests her head against them half-lidded as she chews on the bun. Yes, she is beautiful. Inside and out, Randvi is undeniably the most awe-striking and beautiful person Eivor has ever met.

She takes a moment to study her face in the firelight; the way it’s caught in the blue of her eyes like sparks and how the warm glow illuminates her freckle-dotted skin. Randvi glances up from her own meager meal, looking quizzically at her.

“Are you okay?” she asks with a small chuckle.

Is she okay? Eivor can’t be sure. She is, after all, stuck in a ramshackle hut in the middle of nowhere, trying to wait out a raging blizzard and survive the freezing night, while gods know what danger might be lurking outside in the dark. But she’s also stuck with the woman who seems to have cast some kind of spell on her.

It hasn’t always been like this, at least not that Eivor can remember. What she remembers is the instant physical attraction and the short, but gradual timeline, where each time she’d see her, it would get a little harder for her to breathe around the other woman. A little harder to meet her gaze without that pang in her chest. For a while, she thought maybe this was what having a best friend felt like. Tove and Valka are great friends, of course, but they hardly spend the same amount of time with her as she does with Randvi since she’s joined the Raven Clan.

“Eivor…?” her voice is softer this time, smile faltering into a mild concern.

“I’m fine, Randvi,” she says at last. “I’m fine.”

Randvi returns her smile and there it is again, that flicker in her heart. Sometimes it’s less of a jolt and more of a calming warmth that breezes across her. It’s something she’s never experienced before with anyone and it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. Mostly terrifying, though, knowing that it can never be.

They eat in relative silence then, both of them staring into the crackling fire. The snowstorm hisses outside. The bread is dry and the cheese is stringy, but at least it’s not _fucking_ solæg, so it’s fine.

Eivor is stuck by the intimacy of it. Their roles in the clan mean close cooperation and frequent companionship whether they like it or not, but there’s a difference between her and Randvi running errands together for Styrbjorn, or her escorting Randvi to a meeting, or her inviting Randvi for a hunt just to get her out of the longhouse, and _this_. For a moment, she gets lost in the sound of the fire, feeling like they are the only two people left in the entire fucking world.

* * *

It gets later, the blizzard rages on and the cold creeps further and further into the room. Eivor feels weariness creeping through her. “I don’t think I will ever feel warm again,” she mutters, the words half-lost in a yawn. She pushes her hands as close to the fire as she dares.

Randvi looks at her and smiles. “Tired?”

“Hm,” Eivor confirms. Physical exhaustion is something she is used to, but this is a different kind of tiredness. It’s more like a numbness, like a limb falling asleep, a frigid fog in her head that makes it hard to keep her eyes open.

“Then, I suppose, we should retire for the evening.”

Eivor nods, looks away and tries to keep her eyes to herself while Randvi settles on the bed, but it’s a difficult task. Flustered, she reaches for one of the battered pillows to set up her own bed on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Comes the question, before Eivor can even begin to settle.

She stops and swallows. She hoped that the sleeping arrangement would be unsaid understanding between them. “Making myself comfortable,” she tries, unconvincingly.

Randvi scoffs.

“Don’t be a fool. There is ample room for both of us,” she says neutrally, moving to make space for her. It seems pointless to argue with her when Eivor can feel the chill trying to wrap its icy fingers around her once again. “Don’t say I did not offer when your fingers fall off from frostbite,” she presses on after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Eivor feels a shiver run through her spine. She should have more control over this.

“One would think that a drengr such as yourself would know that sharing body heat is an excellent strategy, especially when the alternative is freezing.”

Randvi is right, of course. This shouldn’t be anything new, a part of Eivor’s brain tries to offer logically. It’s a tried and true method of keeping warm and she shouldn’t feel embarrassment at all. Technically. Supposedly. Her training had taught her exactly what to do in situations such as this. Sharing body heat is the best, most reliable way to soak up as much heat as possible. And heat is what they both need now. It isn’t a big deal, nothing worth more than a few lighthearted jests if anyone learned about this—She knows there is no need to rationalize it, but it still doesn’t stop the red flush from appearing on her face. Eivor Wolf-Kissed, mighty drengr, known for her courage and might, is now embarrassed about being so near a naked woman.

When she does climb onto the bed, she feels little unsteady in her own existence, even though she’s lying flat on her back, the straws prickling her skin pulling her back to reality. It’s not as good as, like, _her own_ _bed,_ but you do what you have to. The space between them is fraught with tension, the crackling static of unspoken words and unfulfilled possibilities and the frantic thud of her own heartbeat. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, trying to muster up the will to tell Randvi that it’s fine, the fur is enough, she doesn’t have to do this… Eivor won’t be able to sleep anyway. But then Randvi is already shifting closer to her, the bed creaking under their joined weight, and Eivor instinctively makes more room for her before she can convince herself not to. She should really be pulling away instead. This is already so inappropriately far beyond their boundaries—but then she feels Randvi’s warmth on her skin and shivers. ‘ _Must be the cold.’_

“The point of sharing body heat is to stay close enough to actually share body heat, Eivor,” Randvi mocks as she spreads out the fur blanket over her legs and snuggles in besides her, pulling each blanket and animal skin over them both, all the way up to their necks and tucking them in until they’re in a dark, warm cocoon. She’s so close Eivor can practically hear her heartbeat, and gods, she feels her own pulse speeding up with each passing second. This is wrong, so very wrong, but she can’t stop the thoughts—

Soon, her shivers grow softer and sparser and warmth begins to return to her skin, but still, instead of at least slightly pulling away from Randvi, as she should, Eivor curls in closer. The other woman nudges at her legs until she can press her own between her knees. For warmth, certainly. Eivor blinks and reminds herself that this is for _survival_ , that these are not amorous caresses, but Randvi’s cold fingertips are drawing delicious goosebumps along their path as her hand drifts up to fit over the jut of Eivor’s shoulder blade, pulling her closer. The pressure of Randvi’s fingers on her increases minutely and Eivor has to bite back something dangerously close to a moan. She thanks the gods for the simple fact that it’s dark and they’re under the covers, so she doesn’t have to explain the blush she knows is blooming across her chest and tints the tips of her ears pink.

After possibly the longest twenty minutes of her life, during which Randvi fidgets besides her far too much to have fallen asleep, Eivor clears her throat. “Warmer now?”

Randvi sighs contentedly and tightens her arms around her. It’s such a soft and tentative sound, right along the curve of her ear, and Eivor tries not to shudder too noticeably. Such a tiny little action, a fleeting resonance, and yet it has sparks igniting through her veins right up into her heart.

Minutes, perhaps hours pass and Eivor’s been telling herself that if she focuses on the sounds Randvi is making, the repetitive lull of it will make her fall asleep sooner or later, but she’s been lying awake for too long now to keep believing it’ll work. She’s been counting the soft breaths between each snore. It’s a little like counting sheep. But as long as she’s fixating on these, at least she isn’t fixating running worst case scenarios, or worse, highly inappropriate scenarios in her head.

* * *

It doesn’t feel like she’s slept at all when something wakes her. The fire is almost out. For a brief moment, Eivor feels like _they have been exiled to Niflheim_ ; _cold_ and expansive, a crystalline forest of frozen life, tranquil and quiet and lonely. Then she blinks into the darkness, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings and how she’s actually warmer than she’s been since they left Fornburg in the morning. But she can’t see for shit. After a moment, she realizes two things; first, that Randvi’s got her face pressed into her back and her arms wrapped around her waist, and second, that she’s awake because there’s something howling outside.

One of these realizations takes immediate precedence over the other. Eivor breathes as quietly as physically possible, straining to listen to whatever is lurking outside. Another howl rings through the air, atonal and lonely and perhaps if she wasn’t lying naked, completely stripped of her armor and weapons, it wouldn’t be absolutely _fucking_ terrifying, but alas, it is. It’s soon joined by another, and then another—Eivor loses count after the tenth. Even with the wind outside, she can hear the horses nickering with unease.

Something howls again, and this time it’s closer and now she’s fairly sure it’s a wolf. Probably within twenty feet of them. She feels Randvi’s breathing stop, no more warm puffs of air tickling the back of her neck, but the arms around her tighten. She’s not sure if the hammering she hears is the pummeling of Randvi’s heart or her own. Perhaps it’s both. Despite the storm not relenting, she can hear the wolf crunching through the snow. It’s walking slowly, stalking around the hut, as if it was trying to be careful where to put its paws. Eivor listens, tensing when she hears the roof creak and the animal walking _over_ them. She silently asks the gods or whoever might be listening not to let the already crumbling structure collapse and send the beast crashing on top of them.

But the roof holds up, and the beast is now nosing around at the entrance; Eivor turns and grips at Randvi’s shoulder, preparing to launch herself out of the bed. The redhead grabs at her arm and rolls over so that she’s now pinning her down, then breathes out a quiet, “ _Wait”_. Eivor makes a tiny, wordless hiss of disagreement, but she stays. A howl comes from farther away, and the animal investigating them answers with its own.

Randvi splays a hand out on Eivor’s chest, pressing down gently, urging her to be still. Eivor tries to ignore the warmth and the way her muscles tense beneath her fingers as she complies, her eyes boring into Randvi’s in the dark. She holds a finger to her lips in a warning gesture, flicking her eyes between Eivor’s face and the door. Below her, Eivor gives a barely perceptible nod.

The beast continues its stalking, sniffing under the decrepit door. They stay there, air thick with dread, straining their ears for the sounds of the wolf. Eivor’s hand still rests where it fell on the small of Randvi’s back, the touch distracting her from her mental calculations. It’s pointless, though, she would have no time to snatch up her axe and duck out… it would be far too risky. She’s all too familiar with wolves to know they have keen hearing, and it would most certainly detect the bed creaking and her footsteps on the ground.

At the bottom corner of the door, the scratching starts again as the wolf grows frustrated with the apparent blockade. Eivor’s gaze remains steady, as it holds Randvi’s, and there is something reassuring in it. The hand on her chest shifts slightly, sending pleasant tingles down her spine.

Another cry and the hairs on Eivor’s arms raise. It’s distant, though, echoing from somewhere between the trees. A disappointed groan escapes the beast right outside the door in response, and the sniffing subsides as it turns away and scurries back into the woods.

With a burst of laughter, Randvi collapses in relief. “Fuck,” she laughs breathlessly, fingers clutching at Eivor’s shoulders. Eivor savors the feel of her weight on her, her heartbeat – unsurprisingly fast – against her own, her body above hers; too giddy with relief to worry about anything but the moment. “I cannot tell if the gods favor or despise us.”

‘ _Any second now,_ ’ scolds the dim voice in the back of Eivor’s mind, Randvi will probably roll off her in discomfort, and the strange _whatever it was_ that existed between them would be broken—But instead, her head falls against Eivor’s chest, nestling comfortably on her collarbone; the drengr is too drained from this brush of death to keep being cagey about the contact. She’s still tense below her, although whether from the wolf or the sudden touch, she doesn’t know.

“I’m sure even the gods stay far, far away from this cursed place,” Eivor rumbles, a faint smile tinting her gravelly voice. And yet, she would gladly spend the rest of her days in this cursed place if it meant staying like this for an eternity, with Randvi in her arms. Soon, Eivor supposes once again, the moment will break. But she is content for now and makes no effort to brush her off, so there she stays. Randvi huffs a laugh, settling more comfortably on top of her.

“I should keep watch—” Eivor winces at her own words as soon as they leave her mouth, the cold must have addled her mind, because she can’t seem to quit sabotaging herself.

Randvi doesn’t move. “It’s gone now. We still have a long way to go tomorrow, you should try and get some sleep.”

Eivor doesn’t protest, she knows it would be useless, so she lets her head sink back into the pillow, dust scattering around her face and when she does finally drift to sleep, this time she does so as though she’s been knocked out. It’s almost like some kind of Svefnthorn magic, the snap of a völva’s fingers, and she’s gone. Heavy, draining sleep, still.

* * *

She’s always heard that freezing to death was too gentle of a way leave this realm, especially for a warrior chasing Valhalla, and that must be true, because it’s given her the gift of hallucinatory peace and warmth, the company of a _friend_ and at least she’s not dying alone on some godsforsaken mountain. Even in the light of the foggy dawn, she knows Randvi is the one lying beside her from the pattern of her breathing, the tickling of her hair against her skin, the faint honey scent that always seems to permeate her.

Eivor blinks awake then, bleary and complacent. Her face is now smushed against Randvi’s throat, lips brushing against the dip of her collarbone ever so slightly. Watery grey light filters in around them through the holes and gaps in the wall. She pulls away, feeling a certain kind of shyness she’s not used to feeling, trying not to wake her up, but then she sees that Randvi is, in fact, already awake, watching her with a curious, but gentle expression on her face.

Eivor’s heart never really stood a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn't have taken this long, considering that literally nothing happens. 
> 
> Anygays, I headcanon something like this happening like a year or two after they first meet. Copy-pasting my headcanon timeline from Tumblr based on the comment Randvi makes about rememberig Vili: According to my thorough calculations based on the Wiki page, Eivor was born in 847, Sigurd and Randvi got married in 869, the clan migrated to England in 873, Sigurd and Eivor return to Norway 4 years later in 877. Let’s assume then that the Snotinghamscire arc takes place around 875-76, so Vili left Norway around 865-66 when Eivor was only 18-19 and by which time Randvi must’ve met them all and maybe even stayed with the Ravens.


	11. Messaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she has her arranged the way she wants, Randvi stops and lets one hand keep Eivor’s wrists together, while the other reaches for the piece of silk, then she loops the fabric around her hands once, twice, three times, tugging it as she ties the knot. This is—she’s been thinking about this for a long time, longer than she’d really like to admit; a fantasy biding its time in the dark corners of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _messaline_ \- soft lightweight silk with a satin weave.

“Do you trust me, my love?” she asks, pushing Eivor into their bed, pressing her nose into the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder. There’s no denying the surge of arousal she feels, flowing hot as the fires of Muspelheim, setting her veins aflame and melting her skin. Eivor is looking at her with an utterly sincere expression, pink-cheeked and breathless already. Randvi is suddenly acutely aware of every part of her body that is touching hers. She can feel the strain of her chest against her own as she breathes.

Then Eivor laughs. “With my life,” she replies without hesitation, lips quirking up into a little grin that’s just this side of a smirk. She’s quietly confident, playful even as she’s obviously wanting, and Randvi—Randvi wants to have her, totally and completely.

Her expression softens and she leans in for one more kiss before sitting back on her knees, one leg on each side of Eivor’s hips. Gently, she takes Eivor’s wrists, one in each hand, and holds them in the space between their bodies as she licks her lips, the gesture eliciting a groan from Eivor. Slowly, Randvi shifts her weight until she has the drengr’s toned arms pressed to the pillow above her head, wrists crossed. She pulls back, looking at the headboard, then at Eivor, and leans in one more time to move her hands a little higher.

When she has her arranged the way she wants, Randvi stops and lets one hand keep Eivor’s wrists together, while the other reaches for the piece of silk, then she loops the fabric around her hands once, twice, three times, tugging it as she ties the knot. This is—she’s been thinking about this for a long time, longer than she’d really like to admit; a fantasy biding its time in the dark corners of her mind.

The silk now binding Eivor’s wrists above her head, fixing them to the bedstead, was an impulse on Randvi’s part; the moment she laid eyes on the jade-colored fabric in Yanli’s shop, she knew it would be a waste to let it all go to Mayda. She imagined herself waiting for Eivor in their chamber, wrapped in the delicate material and nothing else, teasing her until they both felt afire and hollowed and teetering over some edge that would land her in her lover’s arms. Gods, she must look so, so delighted with herself as she sits back on her heels again, smiling. It’s sweet and impish at the same time and Eivor angles her chin up, asking for a kiss, which Randvi gives gladly, covering her lips with a soft, warm press, the slide of her tongue in her mouth.

Even bound and whimpering for her touch, Eivor is effortlessly seductive and stunning, her golden hair shining like the late-afternoon sun on the pillows around her, her skin creamy and covered with an ethereal flush so beautiful that Randvi would lean down to kiss it if she wasn't caught up in her face, locked in an expression between bliss and agony.

“How is it?” she asks then, nodding up to Eivor’s hands. “Not too tight?”

Eivor flexes her arms experimentally, trying to loosen her bonds. The knot holds and the silk rubs against her wrists gently; firm, but not too tight. She shakes her head, “It’s good.”

Truthfully, Eivor could most probably break free from her restraints; she _is_ the clan’s prized drengr, after all. Still, it’s a mutual understanding that unlike on the battlefield, Eivor likes relinquishing control in bed. Being told what to do. Put in her place. Surrendering to touch and sensation. Or maybe she just likes relinquishing control to Randvi. Either way, she doesn’t mind, and having Eivor at her mercy is always deeply satisfying, making her feel high on the sheer power of it.

Randvi grins then, eyes flaring blue. “Good.” Her fingertips trace a path down Eivor’s sides, feather-light touches that begin at her wrists and move lower. Eivor looks on while Randvi touches, and that almost makes it harder. Her eyes are hungry and eager, desire written in her expression in a way that Randvi recognizes well. She knows that look, knows that usually she sees it right before Eivor lifts her up onto the desk in the alliance room, or presses her against a wall, or throws her onto the bed. Randvi’s own gaze lingers everywhere she’s not touching – Eivor’s breasts, her mouth, her cunt—and it only adds to the tension low in her belly. It makes her want to hear Eivor _beg_.

She’s wet and writhing and beautiful, and Randvi can’t help but wonder for a moment how she deserved this, before quickly shaking off the thought. There’s other things to do, Eivor spread out on the bed before her, looking like a treat, biting her bottom lip as she looks at Randvi with hooded eyes. It takes her breath away a little, and she smiles as Eivor wiggles her hips.

“Randvi…”

“Not yet.” She bites down on the tender flesh of Eivor’s earlobe, smirking at the resulting groan of frustration from the other woman. She knows that Eivor will make her pay for all the teasing – in all honesty, _she’s counting on it_ – but oh, how she loves to watch her squirm in anticipation. It doesn’t hurt that she knows exactly how to push Eivor’s limits to their breaking point. After all, when they’re not busy sorting out the clan’s affairs or clearing out bandit camps around the settlement, or going on diplomatic missions, they spend the majority of their time together falling in and out of bed for hours on end—well, for the most part; quite a few other locations have also been utilized for the purpose of sex. No doubt trying to make up for lost time, not that Randvi has ever complained about it. It has also become increasingly difficult to part ways when Eivor’s help was needed in some distant corner of England. Still, no matter how frequently they have been separated, once reunited, their bodies always seemed to remember each other.

Randvi reaches out then, putting her hand on Eivor’s belly, stilling her movements, raising one eyebrow at her, still smiling. “Someone’s eager,” she teases, sliding one hand up to tweak one of her nipples, kissing a hip, and Eivor whines. Randvi lingers on all the less important parts; the muscled expanse of her abdomen, her ribs, the backs of her knees. Everywhere but where Eivor needs her.

She takes her time working her way down Eivor’s body, tracing the constellations of scars and runes that decorate every inch of her with the tip of her tongue, her fingertips drawing inconsistent patterns over the sweat-slicked skin. The drengr gasps and trashes as Randvi’s tongue circles one of her nipples, slowly, before taking it in her mouth and biting down gently, then soothing the pleasant sting with a soft stroke. Icy blue eyes meet emerald ones through lids half-closed and clouded with lust and Randvi hopes that Eivor is focusing on all the ways she is going to make her scream once she is set free.

Randvi slides up her body, making sure that her nipples brush against her skin as she leans in for a deep kiss. Eivor seems to be struggling internally, trying to maintain her composure and Randvi enjoys every second of it. She feels the blonde moan into her mouth as their tongues meet, gently at first, then pushing against one another in a bid of power.

“Randvi…” There’s hint of desperation in Eivor’s voice now as Randvi breaks the kiss, making her core throb with need. “I want… I—”

“What is it you want, _my jarl?_ ” Randvi struggles to keep her voice steady, not wanting to betray the excitement bubbling inside her, Eivor’s eyes not leaving hers. She started calling her that just teasingly during the day, but then she called her _jarl_ in bed and Eivor almost came just from hearing that and since then, Randvi always takes the opportunity to refer to her by her title.

While Eivor pants and struggles to find the right words, Randvi smirks and moves her mouth along her jawline and down to her neck, her teeth and tongue tracing a path along the sensitive flesh. When Eivor tenses, hips rising, arms straining against her bindings, Randvi watches the corded ripple of her muscles dance under her skin. She is altogether a far more appealing sight than she has any right to be. She rides the roll of Eivor’s hips easily, enjoying the rising panic on her face as she tries so very, very hard to wait. She is, quite surprisingly, making a genuine effort. It’s almost endearing.

“You’re killing me, Randvi,” Eivor squirms, her hips involuntary moving forward in search of more attention once again. In response, Randvi uses gentle pressure to trace slow, deliberate circles around her center, her fingers twisting around the short, dark curls there as she looks up at her and raises an eyebrow in mock concern. Her own desire doubles when she catches a glimpse of Eivor’s face, flushed with color, the picture of desire.

“Oh?” She tries not to laugh. “Should I stop, then?”

“Gods, don’t you dare…” A small sob escapes as Eivor strains against her bindings, her legs quivering ever so slightly as she rolls her hips forward, desperate for contact. Randvi clicks her tongue disapprovingly. She takes the opportunity to press her finger against her opening, sliding in easily. Then she stills her movement and waits for Eivor’s response, looking at her face with intensity, not wanting to lose any reaction. There’s a hint of a pout there, and Eivor whines again as Randvi crooks her finger, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment, before speaking up, her words coming haltingly, “More. Please.”

They lock eyes for a moment and Eivor nods, a short movement, and Randvi presses another finger into her, Eivor breathing in, clenching around her fingers, a little self-satisfied smile on her lips. Randvi returns the smile, eyes still soft as she works her fingers deeper, pressing up, sliding in a third finger with ease. Eivor says something, more a moan than words, and Randvi lifts a questioning eyebrow, her belly is filled with fire and she can feel the dull ache between her own legs just from watching Eivor.

There’s something about the look in Eivor’s eyes in these moments, when she’s trying to focus her gaze, but there’s a certain cloudy something to them as Randvi ups her speed, the wetness making it easy. Eivor trembles. “I need to touch you,” she speaks slowly, through gritted teeth; the perspiration on her brow has become more pronounced.

“What was that?” Randvi’s grin widens, and she pulls her hand back slowly, Eivor sniveling pitifully as she does so. She knows it’s probably bordering on cruel, to just leave her like that, so she presses a kiss to the place where her lips meet, eliciting another moan. Still, Randvi takes her time. Eivor wiggles, teeth digging into her bottom lip in anticipation as Randvi reaches towards her once again, smoothing the soft skin on her thighs with her palms.

Whatever impertinent response Eivor has in mind dies somewhere along the journey from her brain to her mouth; a small choked noise is all the she can muster as Randvi moves lower along her body. She traces a path between Eivor’s breasts with the tip of her tongue, feeling her shiver against her; she never breaks eye contact as her skillful tongue reaches her abdomen, her mouth opening in order to leave a trail of hot, wet kisses along the way to her center. Eivor allows her head to fall back against the pillow, moaning loudly as Randvi’s tongue finally finds her, relieving some of the almost unbearable pressure within her body. The slow, sweet strokes of her tongue set the pace, alternating the amount of pressure and speed just to keep Eivor in suspense. Eivor clenches her jaw to keep from saying anything too embarrassing.

Sensing that Eivor is once again getting too close to her release, Randvi brings her head up, making a show of licking her wet lips clean.

“Touch yourself for me,” Eivor mumbles between heavy breaths.

Randvi’s smirk is wicked as she meets her gaze. “I don’t think you are in any position to make demands.” But mercifully, she sighs ever so slowly and slides her free hand down her own belly, and she’s almost surprised she’s not been dripping on the sheets. She flies her fingers over her own center to catch up. It won’t take long now, judging by the way Eivor is trashing under her.

Then she shifts and her fingers are inside her again, her thumb touching her so gently Eivor can only just feel it. Randvi increases the place slowly, _so slowly_ , and Eivor swells with pleasure, almost crests before Randvi pulls her back, raises her up and back down again, the wave never quite breaking. Her fingers play Eivor expertly, sure and firm and achingly gentle until she hears her breath hitch, higher and higher until she’s panting for air.

When Eivor finally comes it’s so intense it robs her of breath; her mouth opening in a soundless cry as pleasure washes over her, fills her, consumes her. The sight of her sends Randvi over the edge just moments later; she is shattered into a thousand stars as she comes completely undone, writhing at the touch of her own hand and ripping holes in the air with her high-rent keens. It lasts an eternity, but Eivor’s eyes are there to guide her through.

Spent, she collapses on top of Eivor, allowing her head to rest against the other woman’s chest as she comes down from her high. She wraps one arm around her then, the other stroking the shaved side of the drengr’s head as she murmurs affectionately through her post-orgasmic haze, enjoying the shared connection as her body relaxes. When she opens her eyes again, she finds Eivor gazing at her with a mixed expression of reproach and satisfaction.

“What?” Randvi smiles up at her, feeling the warmth of her affection pulse in her chest like a second heartbeat.

“You’ll be the death of me with all the teasing.” Eivor’s expression is so serious that Randvi almost laughs out loud, earning her another reproachful look. Instead, she huffs the laugh into Eivor’s neck and bites at the soft, sweat-damp skin there, adding to the smattering of love-bites collected in the past hour.

When Eivor shifts uncomfortably, Randvi moves to untie her hands, gently pressing soft kisses and whispered promises of soothing salves into the slightly reddened skin of her wrists. Once free, Eivor wastes no time flipping them both over, looming over Randvi and pressing her into the furs covering the bed. The amber glow of the candles leaves just enough light for Randvi to watch the soft blue of her eyes as they get swallowed up in black.

Randvi arches up for a kiss, but Eivor pulls back, her expression unreadable as she takes the silk in her hand and tears it in two with one swift motion. _Well, Mayda won’t be too happy about that_ , Randvi thinks. Eivor toys with the fabric between her long fingers for a moment, then looks up at Randvi, asking for permission with her eyes. Randvi swallows before she nods. Eivor slips one of the strips around head, pressing the length of it against Randvi’s eyes as they flutter and close, knotting it carefully to avoid catching her hair.

“Lie back,” Eivor directs, adjusting the material to hold just beneath the tattoo on Randvi’s brow. “Arms up.”

Pulling at her wrists, Randvi feels the slight tug of silk that now binds her wrists above her head, as it pulls against her and moves across her bare skin. The feeling is divine, far more so than she ever believed it would be, not that she was often wrong about such things.

“Do you have any idea what I want to do to you like this?” Eivor asks, breath blowing into the dip in Randvi’s collarbone and she quivers beneath her. “I want to kiss every inch of your skin. Leave you covered in the marks of my touch.”

Even though she can’t see it, Randvi can almost feel the smug promise that builds in the curl of Eivor’s smirk, her fingers spreading to brush along the sensitive undersides of her arms. They dance down the line of her forearm, glide over the crook of her elbow and slip over the bows of her triceps. The kiss Eivor places on her neck is messy, all wet tongue and nipping teeth that work along her jaw before catching the swell of her lower lip. Eivor swallows the start of a moan, Randvi’s mouth falling open and soft as she submits.

With her sight stripped from her, all her other senses are heightened. The air is filled with the stench of sweat and sex, not at all unwelcome. The scent of the beeswax candle that is sitting on the desk mixed in. Then she takes note of her favorite scent. That all too familiar, soothing smell of pine that radiates from the body that hovers over her. It’s something she’ll never get tired of. Then there is a faint taste that has been sitting on her tongue for a while now. It’s also something she’s familiar with, and another one of her favorites. The salty, yet sweet flavor coasting her taste buds is a reminder of her hard work; perhaps she would even call it a reward.

Despite lying back comfortable on the bed with furs and pillows surrounding her, every nerve ending in her body is screaming. Her own moans vibrate through the air, along with some frustrated curses. Sometimes, she hears a chuckle or two from the woman above her, clearly amused by that state that she’s in. Often, she hears Eivor muttering praises, with her hoarse, lust-filled voice. She tries to stifle the whimpers every now and then, but every time she feels her body aching for release, she can’t help but to cry out pleas of desperation.

“I bet I could make you come just from this,” Eivor sighs, longing. Thumb catching the edge Randvi’s nipple against her index finger, she tugs, and the resulting arch of Randvi’s back underneath her is all the answer she needs as she traces the contour of her other breast with her fingertips, eliciting a soft groan.

Eivor finds it in herself to be merciful as she bends to follow the path of her fingers with a flat stroke of her tongue. “Maybe next time.” Her voice is low, every word punctuated with an unspoken promise that sends shivers along Randvi’s spine. To say she’s overstimulated would be an understatement; it doesn’t help that she feels Eivor’s tongue trailing its way up her neck towards her jawline. She nips at her skin, no doubt leaving marks—just another reminder of who she belongs to, and Randvi is more than proud to wear them. There is an intense burning in her lower abdomen that is starting to act up. But Eivor is in charge of that, and it seems she wants to make sure that Randvi knows it.

She feels Eivor shift, sliding Randvi’s legs apart, and with one movement of her hips, her thigh is pressed solidly against her center. She rocks forward, and suddenly there’s contact and friction, exactly-but-not-quite what Randvi’s desperate for. Eivor’s straddling one of her thighs now, and Randvi can feel her, slippery and impossibly warm against her skin. She’s trying, so, so hard to keep herself from grinding up against it, tugging against the bond above her head to keep herself focused.

Eivor nips at her mouth as she rocks down, pressing herself against her thigh until she moans and Eivor shudders forward, bent over Randvi’s body, forehead dipping to touch the other woman’s collarbone. Randvi’s brows quiver, she aches to see her, hair mussed and braids falling apart around her shoulders, the perfect curve of her spine and the rest of her body in between, naked and glorious and just out of her sight and reach.

“Eivor, please…” she calls out, desperate, her hips lifting to chase Eivor’s touch for more contact. Her voice is soft, hoarse, a hint of needy, something she tries so hard to disguise usually, but Eivor knows very well it’s a front.

Eivor’s hands cradle her cheeks as she kisses her fiercely, pouring each ounce of love that she has into her. By Thor’s death, if only Randvi could wrap her arms around her as she usually does, drawing her closer and never wanting to let her go. As it is, she’s strained slightly, hoping that if she pulls hard enough maybe her binds would be set free and she could finally touch this woman she loves so gods damned much.

Eivor’s body is pressed so fully against hers that she can’t help but long to be touched in all the ways she’s become accustomed to. Her lover was always attentive and usually a simple plea would get Randvi the results she wanted. Eivor always listened, always gave and pampered with a sly quirk of her lips and the warmth in her eyes that said she was adoring every moment of each whispered devotion that poured from her lips.

Now, however, Randvi can’t see the way Eivor’s lips are pulled into a devilish smirk, her eyes almost sharp as they tear fires across Randvi’s body with a hunger that mostly came at the beginning of their relationship. Nor can she see the expression of a woman who seeks only to tease her until she is practically quivering with want and need.

As if answering her thoughts, Eivor moves down, trailing her lips down her stomach and grazing her skin with the faintest of touches of her tongue. Her nails grip Randvi’s hips, pinning them hard to the bed and digging until Randvi can’t help but yelp at the slight pain. The nails rake over her skin, drawing gasps from her lips as she feels the heat pool between her legs. Her hips try to roll on their own accord, but they’re pinned down firmly, pulling another groan from her lips at the sweet pleasure from being restrained.

She digs her own nails into her palms, doing her best to relax as Eivor starts at her ankles and works her way back up her body with her mouth, ankles to knees to thighs. When she feels her teeth scrape the inside of her thigh, she trembles and she can feel that Eivor’s watching, mouth pressed to the crease of her thigh, just below her femoral artery.

A low moan falls from Randvi’s mouth as Eivor’s tongue strokes maddening paths over the slick heat between her legs. Her hips buck against each movement, wanting more as the hunger and desire to be consumed grows harder and harder to ignore. It’s difficult to keep herself under control as Eivor wraps her arms around her thighs and moans into her, clearly enjoying herself.

To give her a taste of her own medicine, Eivor pulls away entirely and Randvi whimpers in frustration. Eivor chuckles softly and dips her head back down. Her laugh vibrates against Randvi’s skin as she presses kisses to her hip bones, her navel, then one at each rib. Slowly, she moves closer and closer to Randvi’s breasts, and Randvi arches up, hopeful.

Oh, how she longs to thread her fingers through her hair, pulling her closer. She misses the way she would usually tug and scratch at her scalp, making the woman moan in the delightfully seductive way of hers. She wants nothing more than to pull those lips upwards and kiss them, savoring the taste of herself on her lover’s tongue and pulling her in until they’re nothing but a mass of sprawled limbs on the tangled sheets.

Eivor laughs again and Randvi’s head hits the pillow, frustrated and she’s about to say something when Eivor slides back down and changes the rhythm of her mouth. Gradually, the movements of her tongue start to grow faster, bringing Randvi closer to where she needs to be. She whimpers with desire; as much as she has enjoyed turning the tables on Eivor, goading her on and on, this is what she has been waiting for. She wanted—no, she _needed_ —to be fucked hard and fast.

“Come for me,” Eivor orders.

That’s all she needs. Randvi shatters, surrendering her everything to her lover as she feels herself spill out, her head swimming and her mind bursting out her body in waves. She shudders with each spasm of her pleasure as a satiated grin spreads itself across her lips. Her release is hard, overwhelming, making her shudder for what feels like minutes as Eivor laps at her over and over again, drawing everything out of her. She guides her through it, the familiar gesture comforting as she rasps out her breathing.

Eivor lets her go slowly and moves up on her body again, licking her lips, raising goosebumps on Randvi’s freckled skin in her wake. She leans forward and kisses her on the forehead before reaching to free her of the blindfold, then of the fabric tying her wrists together and to the bed, untying them swiftly, rubbing the skin gently, inspecting them for marks. As she looks down, Randvi grins, smug as if she wasn’t just all high pitched, practically begging for it.

“I love you,” Randvi murmurs, her voice tinged with lust as her brain gropes blindly for words amidst the fog of pleasure. There’s another kiss atop her head, Eivor’s hands are disappearing into her hair and she feels a flash of warmth, affection, love, growing from her belly warming her entire body, and she smiles.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anygays... I felt like it was time to bump up the rating to E. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	12. Verklempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It has been a year since you kissed me and sealed my fate. A year since you told me you cared for me and I was not strong enough to resist,_ Eivor wants to say, but decides against it. “It has been a year since I took you to Grantebridge.” Her voice lilts in the pronouncement, proud, but there is a tinge of nervousness underneath. “I want to whisk you away like I did that day. Where no meddlesome villagers can find us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _verklempt_ \- completely and utterly overcome with emotion.
> 
> Special thanks to [@IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou/pseuds/IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou) for betaing. Go read [Her Deadly Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701450/chapters/70367619), or I will throw hands.

Eivor lingers around the edge of the settlement, anticipation coursing through her as she waits—and she waits for a long while, carving sticks into toy-sized spears just to pass the time. There is a certain longing she feels when she looks up from her lap, the longhouse barely visible through the trees, a prick of desire that stings at her as she strains her ears, her eyes scanning through the forest for signs of her lover.

There is nothing disturbing the woods, only the wind rustling the leaves, her horse chewing on grass and creatures scurrying about in the undergrowth. Eivor allows herself a sigh and a pout, if only for a moment. Then she leans back against the tree, her head hitting the trunk a bit too hard, causing a smattering of leaves to rain down around her. She closes her eyes and lets her mind wander, daydreaming about stolen kisses and getaway plans. The hidden glances. The secret meetings, the sudden brush of their shoulders. The blissful touches and Randvi’s soft lips… She can’t think of Randvi without a lump in her throat, a wave of guilt washing over her along with a pang of sadness that they have to hide their love out here in the woods. No one knows about her and Randvi. No one knows about their trysts. No one knows about their trips beyond the settlement. No one knows about their kisses or touches or that she’s so damn deeply in love her. Well, Eivor suspects Valka knows, perhaps Birna too, but if they do, they are silent.

Sýnin’s shrill caw snaps her out of her daze and she jumps to her feet as Randvi approaches, leading her dapple grey horse by the reins. Eivor brushes at her breeches and tries to appear casual, as if she has not just been fantasizing about the other woman. Her foot taps restlessly onto the ground as she tries to keep herself from meeting her halfway. Gods, she wants to kiss her already.

“Hej,” Randvi greets with a smile a moment later, sparkling eyes and a face so achingly pretty it almost distracts Eivor from the beautiful soul underneath, the devastating looks only a front for the kindest and most wonderful person Eivor has ever known.

“Hej.” Eivor’s grins back at her, then her tongue flicks to her bottom lip, her mouth moving as if she wanted to say something more, but wasn’t entirely sure how.

Randvi laughs, loud and beautiful, and wraps her arms around her neck. She kisses the side of Eivor’s throat and pulls her in. Randvi’s embrace is a myriad of colors and scents, all sweet and familiar and safe, like nothing bad ever happened in Eivor’s life. It’s a place of serenity deep in her heart that pulses with love, a hundred different smiles and laughs and unexpectedly endearing snorts superimposed over each other in a cacophony of joy.

Eivor traces Randvi’s jaw with a thumb, drawing her closer, and kisses her slowly, thoroughly, telling her with actions what she can barely express with words, and when they part, Randvi’s eyes are softer, painstakingly tender. They rarely talk when they do this; moving and touching on instinct alone. As if speaking would break the spell, cause them to remember just how _wrong_ this is and shatter the moment beyond repair. Eivor is grateful for the way Randvi understands her silences, the way she knows the language that Eivor speaks without words. And she’s thankful that she need never fear that Randvi doesn’t know the depth of her feelings.

All the stress rocks out of Eivor’s shoulders, tension slipping away as their lips move against each other. Her life is bloody and intense, her hands fit for violence no matter how you cut it—either clenched into fists or gripping an axe—and yet, at her center, is a core of peace that Randvi has carved into her with soothing words and love despite everything.

Breathless, Eivor draws back and their lips do a happy smacking sound when they part.

“Now, would you mind telling me what this is about?” Randvi asks and hands Eivor the note she left under a pawn on the alliance table. A little bold—careless, even—but she knew no one but Randvi would notice.

 _It has been a year since you kissed me and sealed my fate_. _A year since you told me you cared for me and I was not strong enough to resist,_ Eivor wants to say, but decides against it. “It has been a year since I took you to Grantebridge.” Her voice lilts in the pronouncement, proud, but there is a tinge of nervousness underneath.

“Oh.”

Instinctively, Eivor reaches for Randvi’s face, cupping it and the redhead leans into it, pressing her lips to Eivor’s palm. “I want to whisk you away like I did that day. Where no meddlesome villagers can find us.”

“Eivor, I—” Randvi simply stares at her for a moment before glancing back towards Ravensthorpe in the distance. After a moment, she shakes her head and turns back to Eivor, giving her a soft smile. “I suppose I could use some fresh air.”

Eivor feels her chest warm at the smile and she returns it with a wide one of her own.

* * *

They get on their horses and ride through meadows of green, past fields of flowers and bright sparkling streams, chasing the taste of freedom, stealing kisses and pushing on as they get closer to their destination, as if Midgard only ever existed for the two of them.

They ride on in an amiable silence along the trail until Randvi breaks it. “Eivor?”

Eivor hums, looking over at her.

“Do you regret it?” she asks. Eivor’s hand tightens around the reins. She whips her head back to Randvi, brows slightly knit—a question there, while her heart finds a new home in the bottom of her stomach. “Do you regret that I kissed you that day?”

Eivor huffs a laugh to hide her sudden nervousness. “I am glad you did.”

There is a heavy moment of silence as they smile at each other. “So am I.” Randvi says and her voice has that playful, mischievous quality that Eivor can never get enough of and it wraps around her like a soothing blanket. This love of hers, it feels like the sea-air in her hair, a feather upon her cheek, bare feet running through time itself.

* * *

They’ve been riding for almost two hours, and Eivor has noticed that the deeper they go into Ledecestrescire and then Lincolnshire, the more carefree Randvi seems. She knows all too well that this spontaneous and playful side of her does not come to light often. But perhaps even better than that is the way her genuine laughter echoes through Eivor’s ears. It’s thrilling enough to send shivers down her spine. She bites on her lower lip and focuses her eyes on the trail ahead in order to avoid making too much of a fuss over such a trivial act; but _gods_ , does she enjoy it. If only she could take her along on her adventures, if only she could just steal a little bit more time with her, if only she could ease her burdens, if only…

“Eivor, where are you taking me?”

The question snaps Eivor out of her thoughts. She glances back with a small gleam in her eyes. “Sh!” She winks, “It is a surprise.”

* * *

When they finally arrive at the clearing, the sun is high in the sky, the light shining golden through the leaves up above. Eivor jumps off her horse and spreads her arms wide, as if she has built the structure before them all by herself. “We have arrived!”

Randvi looks around in wonder, with those big blue eyes of hers, as if she’s seeing the world for the first time. Eivor doesn’t understand her fascination with ancient ruins, but it doesn’t stop her from taking note of the ones she wants to show Randvi during her travels. She loves seeing her looking around like she has never seen scenery like this before. It does make her _adorable_ , Eivor decides.

The ruin, constructed in old Roman style, must have been some kind of temple once. Now it’s falling apart, but still beautiful. The outer stone structure is mostly crumbled, and the pillars and walls that are still standing are covered with ivy and vines, the surrounding area is overgrown with wide-trunked willow trees.

Eivor takes Randvi’s hand and leads her closer to the ruins, winding past the half-collapsed and still intact columns. There is a statue of a goddess in the center, wings flared, scepter in hand, a raised arm holding a wreath.

Eivor has been planning this for days, whenever she found the spare time. She’s rehearsed the day countless times, her mind never straying far from it. Her anxiety mounted until it rendered her sleepless during the night, her mind unable to stop thinking of every problem, every roadblock that could possibly ruin her plans; rain, bandits, ants getting to the food before they do. But the campfire she lit in the morning is still crackling—though it could use some more firewood underneath—and the piles upon piles of food seem to be untouched. There’s lamb stew simmering in the pot, bowls of raspberries and blueberries, at least four different cheeses, something that looks like a pie, honey cake and several skins of ale.

“You did this?” Randvi looks at her. “You did all this for me?”

Eivor gives something between a mocking bow and a curtsey in response. “Of course, hjartað mitt.” She turns to Randvi and brings a hand up, running her fingers through the wavy red hair of her ponytail as she moves closer, brushing their lips together and whispering, “I thought it would be fun to have a meal under the sun today.” There is definitely a hidden message and Randvi shivers at the intonation of the sultry words. Eivor lingers at her mouth, lips continuing to softly brush back and forth against Randvi’s as heated breath warms their faces. When they part, Eivor shrugs. “Besides, who else would I have done this for?”

Randvi hums, sliding a hand into Eivor’s. “No one,” she says softly, rubbing her nose along her cheekbone, lips barely brushing lips this time. “All mine.”

“Come,” Eivor walks backwards towards the blankets and furs laid out by the campfire and tugs Randvi along. She sits down and pulls her lover between her knees before pressing a quick kiss to her lips. They shed their heavy armor haphazardly, uncaring of where the pieces fall, and curl up together beside the hearth.

“I saw your note about Merton’s fish pie, so I asked him to make it,” Eivor says as she reaches for the plate.

It was his mother’s recipe; the fisherman has told Eivor. A savory blend of cod, salmon, smoked haddock and his secret ingredient: flatfish, which were almost impossible to find according to Arth. Unwavering, Eivor has scoured the rivers and lakes around the settlement for days, spending countless hours on skiffs and docks to catch the elusive fish, and just when she was about to admit that the fisherboy was right, Njörðr himself had smiled upon her—the tiniest flatfish biting at the end of her line. “It’s not often I get to catch flatfish around these parts,” she explains, “so don’t leave any leftovers.”

Eivor’s not much of a cook, but when Randvi’s eyes light up after the first bite, she makes a mental note to learn how to make it herself. They eat in a comfortable silence, with Eivor always watching Randvi from the corner of her eye, trying to see if she’d notice how Eivor remembered the way she liked her eggs (slightly runny), how she preferred marjoram over thyme, how she liked to top honey cake with cranberry sauce instead of the more traditional lingonberry cream. She hopes that the impeccable care she has put into preparing this feast for two will not go overlooked.

“Thank you for doing this,” Randvi tells her when nearly everything is gone. “You put a lot of care into it.”

Eivor nods and smiles, before pressing a kiss to Randvi’s temple, her face radiating warmth as she does so.

“Do you not want to kiss me properly now that my breath smells like fish pie?” Randvi teases.

Eivor laughs, pecking the slight frown off Randvi’s face. “You could reek like the rotting flesh of a draugr and I would still want to kiss you.”

Randvi raises an eyebrow and the corner of her lip quirks up. Eivor simply thumbs some leftover pie away from her mouth. Then their hands find each other’s, Eivor’s right and Randvi’s left, fingers interlocking. Eivor brings Randvi’s hand to her mouth so she can kiss the back of her palm. When Randvi smiles, she does it again, and again, and again. Randvi doesn’t try to take her hand away, just looks at Eivor with one side of her mouth curled into a half-grin.

* * *

They’re still lounging under the broken canopy of the ruins when the sunlight starts to fade, barely filtering in to dapple on their faces. Although there is a light breeze, both the abiding warmth of the day and the warmth of their bodies entwined together keeps Eivor from feeling the chill.

When the last of the honey cake is gone, and the second skin of ale is out, Eivor start to realize that the quiet welcomes thoughts she doesn’t want to consider. This feels almost too idyllic; Randvi here, pressed against her, kissing her, fingers tugging at her braids. Nothing else exists, only the precious moment they are sharing away from everything and everyone else. Though Eivor is aware of the fact that others probably know of the ruins, she can’t help but feel as though they belong to them, their own private Fólkvangr. There’s no Ravensthorpe, no Order, no puppet kings to be crowned, no Sig—Eivor begins to unconsciously fidget with the hem of her own tunic.

“Stop that.” Randvi’s eyes jerk up to Eivor’s and hold, for a long, withering minute, communicating all sorts of annoyance.

“Stop what?”

“Arguing in your head. If you are going to do it, do it out loud. So I can hear it. And if need be, defend my case.” Randvi wraps her hand around Eivor’s fiddling fingers, rubbing the back of Eivor’s palm with her thumb. Her eyes are warm, but concerned.

Eivor sighs, knowing that Randvi won’t let her get away with it. “I do not want this— _us_ —to change. Does that make me a bad person?” she asks, her voice quiet and full of so much sadness she can practically hear her own heart breaking.

A small, resigned smile tics up the edges of Randvi’s mouth, “If it does, then I am bad person, too.”

They have discussed this before. Eivor distinctly remembers agreeing with Randvi that under no circumstances—none, not ever—should Sigurd know about this, not for a long while, at least, until things settle down again. Surely, they will get through it… Even though they don’t belong anywhere near each other; not in this way, not this in love. For the last year, they have managed without everything crumbling down around them. That should have quelled the ugly thoughts that liked to play in Eivor’s mind when the days were long and the nights silent. It hasn’t. Sometimes, Eivor still wonders when she will wake from this fever dream. She still questions why Randvi loves her, why they work so well together. It doesn’t matter that Randvi has become the air in her lungs and without her, Eivor would suffocate. If Eivor has learned one thing, it’s that life is cruel and unfair and that when she is happy and good things are happening to her, then they aren’t bound to last. They aren’t meant for her. They are meant for other people. Not Eivor.

Many times, she has almost resigned herself to her own wretched fate, condemning herself to a life where she loves Randvi with all her heart, all of her hugr, but where she chooses to be _friends_ with her, to do anything she can not to lose her completely. Eivor has lived like that for many years; years filled with longing, pain and anguish haunting her every time she looked at Randvi, every time they talked, every time their bodies touched in the simplest of ways. Those years felt like an eternity, felt never-ending, and ultimately, Eivor couldn’t do it… and all that has led to the present moment.

With Randvi touching her now, the memories of those years flood back. Eivor longs to tangle her fingers in Randvi’s curls, to bring her even closer, to kiss her mouth carelessly, to pretend everything is okay, that nothing is going to change when really, _everything_ will. This—This feeling in her chest, crowding up the back of her throat, threatening to choke her—isn’t simple. It hurts. It soothes. It does things to her heart that feel like she wants to shred the organ from her chest and offer it to Randvi on bent knee. It makes her feel vulnerable. Needy. Angry.

“I am leaving for Essexe tomorrow,” she says instead of the million other things she wants to say. Another alliance waiting to be forged. Another step towards finding her brother and—

Rather than answer, Randvi turns in her arms and kisses her just under her ear and then on her lips. The familiar taste of ale, honey and _Randvi_ pulls a moan from Eivor, her hands skimming over warm wool to land on Randvi’s hips, pulling them flush against herself. Randvi’s tongue teases between her lips, her thigh slotting between Eivor’s legs.

But before she can deepen the kiss, Eivor breaks away with a gasp and rests her forehead against Randvi’s, their ragged breaths mingling. She can see the shine in her eyes, the color in her cheeks, the redness of her mouth and Eivor is barely able to restrain herself from kissing her again. Randvi twirls her fingers around her braid, like ivy around a tree trunk, but Eivor can only think of the poison and how she doesn’t want to ruin this. Sometimes, she wonders what gods have been pleased enough to bring her to Eivor. Then, for a treacherous second, she thinks that Randvi’s not a blessing, no, she’s her curse. The one she covets, but cannot have. It’s damnable. This mockery of closeness when there’s a void of distance between them. One that is a valley of _wrong_ , and one that she has crossed willingly.

“I thought I could be strong, I thought I could live with you as my closest friend and nothing more, but I cannot go back. I don’t know how to,” Eivor confesses, clearly, deeply. And she thinks her sternum might have just cracked open at how fast her heart is beating.

Randvi cups her hand around Eivor’s face and swipes the pad of her thumb across her scarred cheek. Her expression ardent, and Eivor thinks that she could burn out the sun with the look in her eyes if she wanted to.

“ _I_ want to be the source of your laughter, and to be able to laugh with you, to enjoy life together with you, to share moments of quiet and peace when the day is done. My love for you flows as endless as the waters of Hvergelmir, as scorching as the flames of Muspelheim and as powerful as Mjölnir, until the day of the glorious final battle is upon us.”

She turns them over then, rolling both of their forms until Randvi is flat on her back and Eivor settles on top of her. Though her face is pensive, still thoughtful, there is a spark of hope and relief dancing in her blue eyes, and Randvi smiles in return. Leaning forward, Randvi kisses her softly, beckoning her lips closer to her own with the tender embrace as she falls backwards, Eivor following. “I love you,” Randvi whispers, her eyes watery.

“And I love you,” Eivor returns; genuinely, instinctively. Only when they are alone does she allow herself to say such things, and she cherishes those stolen, secret admissions.

When she leans in again, Eivor thinks she sees a darting shadow out of the corner of her eye, briefly, for only just a moment, but then Randvi is kissing her once more, their bodies fusing intimately with each other, and everything and anything other than their own elemental, profound movements disappear. Such flights of fancy are just that, the ghosts of her conscience, perhaps. No one else is here with them; they are alone and her lover’s attentions return her to reality, but only momentarily, before the passion between them engulfs her completely and she gets lost in the bliss that is Randvi’s touch.

* * *

Hours after the sun has set and the wilderness has settled to sleep, Eivor is leaning against a piece of the frieze that has fallen to the ground, floating between sleep and blinking awareness, shuddering as Randvi’s fingers dance along the arm she has carelessly thrown over her stomach. The near pitch-black darkness cocoons her senses and she wonders whether she is dreaming. Eivor thinks of nothing for a while and simply watches the flicker of the dying fire in the light breeze.

“Today has been wonderful, Eivor,” Randvi says, kissing the underside of Eivor’s jaw softly before speaking once more. “But we really should get—”

“There’s one more thing,” Eivor interjects, suddenly wide awake, and stopping Randvi before she can move. Randvi looks at her with curiosity. “Come,” Eivor pulls her up, ignoring the glare Randvi gives her.

She leads her through the pillars, but this time they go back around the statue and with each step, Eivor is becoming increasingly aware of Randvi’s arm on her, feeling her face start to heat up. The little butterflies in her stomach return and the anticipation makes her muscles twitch. Randvi raises a questioning eyebrow when they reach the set of mossy stairs that lead underground. Eivor nods, remains silent as a gestures for her to go on.

Down below, the walls are lit by torches a dozen candles, each in its own pool of wax, casting the chamber into a warm glow. There is a smell of incense wafting through the air, freshly lit. A myriad of petals—daisies, bluebells and poppies—adorn the floor, creating a floral trail leading to the pool that takes center piece in the chamber. It must have been some kind of Roman bath in its heyday, now it’s just a hole in the ground that must lock away one of those star-crossed loves that should never to be. The pool itself is filled with water tinged a slight rose-pink, scarlet pimpernel petals float and bob along the surface, forming a beautiful red-maroon layer.

“Gods,” Randvi whispers as she takes in all the surroundings. Then she turns her face to Eivor, who has been watching her from behind, savoring her reaction with a delighted smile. Randvi flings herself into her arms, slightly knocking the two of them back against the wall, and gazes up at her with a wide smile. “I don’t… I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she says, gently putting a hand on the back of Eivor’s neck to press their foreheads together.

Eivor tugs Randvi to her, capturing her lips in a slow, languorous kiss before murmuring, “You just… are. That’s enough for me.”

“When did you get to be such a romantic?”

“Ah, you bring it out of me, love,” Eivor winks, then feels a slight blush color her cheeks when Randvi wastes no time and turns her attention to undressing her. She makes sure that the she lightly grazes all of Eivor’s sensitive places as she removes each article of clothing, brushing her fingers along skin that pebbles with goosebumps instinctively at her touch. A smile pulls at Eivor’s lips, her own fingertips finding their way under Randvi’s tunic and onto her soft skin. One hand playing on the field of her lower back, connecting lines between each freckle and beauty mark that dots her skin. Eivor feels a sudden jolt of lightning hum in her muscles like a song she’d never heard, prickling every nerve deliciously. If it was any other night, Eivor would be knuckles deep inside her already, but tonight, she just soaks in the tingly touches for now.

Once she’s naked, Eivor aches to reach out and touch her. She tries but Randvi slaps her hands away. “Will you check the water for me?” Randvi asks softly.

Eivor is mildly perplexed by the request, but obliges, walking over to the edge of the pool and sliding in. She takes a few steps, feeling the water lapping against her body, just below her elbows, the petals sliding and sticking against her skin. The water is lukewarm when she submerges herself, a sweet, merciful balm on her never-ending aches and tired muscles, and slowly, she feels the dirt and grime soak away, leaving behind only a particularly profound calm that she rarely experiences. The air above is chilly enough to make her skin prickle when she resurfaces. She wants to slide back into the water but doesn’t; Randvi is looking at her, amusement shifting to hunger.

“If you want me to wash your back, you only have to ask,” Randvi teases with a smirk. “You do not have to make those eyes at me.”

Eivor feigns affront. “Am I not permitted to admire my lover’s beauty? Besides, if anyone was making eyes, I think the culprit might be _you_ , Randvi. I doubt your intentions are entirely innocent.”

“Oh, they most certainly are not,” Randvi laughs huskily, and Eivor is entranced as her fingers reach for the clasp of her cloak. She loves watching Randvi undress, enthralled by the adept movements of her clever, clever fingers on the buckles and the unhurried, gradual exposure of freckled skin to her eager gaze. Of course, Randvi knows this and likes to draw it out, making a performance of it, teasing her, and Eivor at this moment is utterly at her command. She stares, mesmerized, as Randvi carefully divests herself of her tunic and breeches, revealing a pale, thin undertunic that clings delightfully to her curves, enticing in what it conceals and reveals.

Having divested herself of her clothes, Randvi moves to sit at the edge of the pool and Eivor watches her slender legs dangle playfully into the water. Eivor stars to float closer to her, wiggling her eyebrows in the most exaggerated way she can.

For a moment she sees the look in Randvi’s eyes, and wonders if she will kiss her, then it disappears and instead, Randvi kicks water at her. “Patience is a virtue, my love.”

Eivor blinks and spits out water, looking rather indignantly at her now giggling lover. “That was a little uncalled for,” she grumbles affectionately as she moves to stand between Randvi’s legs, her ire soothed when Randvi brushes wet strands of hair from her forehead.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love,” Randvi looks mortified despite her still subsiding laughter. “It’s just that you… _oh_ …” she dissolves into hilarity and Eivor cannot find it in herself to be annoyed, not when Randvi looks so adorable with glee curling up the corners of her eyes. Randvi then bends down to kiss her, gentle and sweet, her mouth not demanding anything, but when she moves to pull back, Eivor captures her with wet fingers at the nape of her neck.

“I missed touching you,” she says on a sigh.

Randvi’s answering smile has something sly about it, a gleam in her eyes that could burn away any and all burdens, leaving a pleasant warmth that travels down to Eivor’s fingers and toes, her senses sharpening in anticipation. Randvi eyes her slowly and deliberately, her gaze sweeping the full length of Eivor’s body beneath the water, and Eivor almost wants to laugh at how comically lewd her stare is, but she settles instead for drawing Randvi’s hand to her lips and kissing her knuckles softly.

Eivor steps back and at last, Randvi slides into the water, like Rán herself rising from the sea, the water rippling around her body as she moves forward with the grace of Freya, and rests a hand gently over Eivor’s chest. For a moment, she meets her eyes, and Eivor knows Randvi can feel hear heart flinging itself against her ribs.

They meet in the middle for a kiss that becomes slower and sultrier the longer it goes on. Beneath Randvi’s fingers, Eivor’s pulse flutters away in her neck. Randvi takes her time, and to Eivor there’s nothing more heart-clenching, more head-lightening than being in the center of Randvi’s attention and focus. A finger on her chin coaxes her to open up and they deepen the kiss. Randvi arches closer to her and smiles against her lips.

Eivor feels Randvi fingers tucking a lock of damp hair behind her ear. Then she begins to unravel Eivor’s soaked braids, pulling her fingers through them, taking no small pleasure in the act. With her eyes on Randvi’s lips, Eivor’s hand moves to undo Randvi’s ponytail, dropping the band that holds it onto the ground to gather up later. The scent of her hair making Eivor light-headed and for a moment, she strokes it silently, reveling in the feelings.

They’re laughing as they kiss again; it’s a short one this time, as Eivor seems intent on getting to the explore Randvi’s neck. There’s a spot just behind her ear that always drives her crazy, but Eivor avoids it for now, giving her small bites up and down the column of her throat. Randvi squirms in place and Eivor can almost feel the heat rising in her chest, her heartbeat pumping. Eivor’s right hand is still below the water, on her waist, and Randvi grips her wrist as an anchor. Teeth scrape along her neck, and she gasps.

Eivor pulls away and opens her eyes. Randvi’s are wide open as well, and this close, Eivor can see the flecks in her irises, see how they look more blue in the warm light, green in shadow.

“I need you,” Randvi moans, clutching hard at Eivor’s wrist.

“Where?” Eivor whispers in her ear, chuckling. She finally moves to that spot, kissing it with only the slightest pressure.

“Everywhere.”

 _This_ , Eivor thinks, _this is happiness_. No drunken feasts or grandiose battles or hard-earned conquests, just this simple pleasure in each other’s presence. She kisses Randvi’s shoulders, the side of her neck, the hollow of her throat, content to be surrounded by the familiar sensations that capture the essence of the woman she loves—the scent of honey in her nostrils, the softness and warmth of her skin, the low, melodic sound of her laughter as Eivor’s nose catches a ticklish spot on her neck. 

Her lover withdraws, that same enigmatic smile on her lips, but a color in her cheeks reveals her own eagerness. Still, they do not hurry, luxuriating in the knowledge of what is to come, not needing to tumble headlong towards it like fumbling maidens joining for the first time.

Randvi moves to kiss her once more, but this time, there is passion in the way their lips move against each other and the grasp of Randvi’s hands as they cradle Eivor’s neck, combing through damp strands of hair. Her body reacts to Randvi’s touch, tingles of hot and cold traveling down her spine, breath shortening and her pulse fluttering erratically beneath Randvi’s questing fingertips.

Randvi relaxes fully against Eivor, her head lolling to one side, and Eivor lets her fingertips graze leisurely over Randvi’s scalp before dipping her hand into the water, scooping it up and letting it run down over the sculpted curve of her shoulder. She allows her fingers to wander further down, following the trail of water droplets across the pale expanse of Randvi’s throat, down to the valley between her breasts. Eivor has no particular destination in mind, content to allow the hitching and stuttering of Randvi’s breath to guide her to where she wants to be touched as she had the very first time they made love. Since then, she has been an attentive and a dutiful pupil, so by now, she knows every inch of Randvi’s body and what she likes, but there is a joy in listening to the slow-fast-slow rhythms of her lover’s breathing, watching her lips part with a sudden exhalation and faint whimper as she reacts to Eivor’s touch.

As it turns out, Randvi has other ideas. With a frustrated growl, she breaks free from Eivor’s embrace. The scented oils in the water make the surface a little treacherous and she slips, sending water sloshing over the pair of them once again, and Eivor can’t help grinning at the sight of Randvi looking more than a little discombobulated, hair wildly askew, flower petals sticking to one shoulder.

“Eivor Wolf-Kissed,” Randvi says insolently, combing fingers through her hair to have it fall against her back, each strand deep red and straight from being drenched.

Eivor desperately tries to keep a straight face, swallowing against the laughter that bubbles up and threatens to escape from her throat. “Yes, my lady?”

“Are you just going to tease me like this forever, or are you actually going to fuck me?” Randvi tries to look down at her sternly, but Eivor spots the way the corners of her mouth tug upwards involuntarily, the tension in her throat as Randvi tries to hold back her own amusement. She manages another few seconds before she can’t keep it anymore, and that sets Randvi off and for a minute, they laugh like fools.

With their mingled laughter, Eivor feels a weight lift from her she wasn’t aware of bearing, a lightness that breathes new life into her weary soul. With a predatory smile, she reaches to pull Randvi closer, closer, until their bodies glide smoothly against each other, slick from the water. Easing a hand around the nape of Randvi’s neck, she kisses her open-mouthed, a gentle slow dance of lips and tongues and breath, aching and shivering and sweet. Randvi’s eyes close in bliss and Eivor watches her, the way her emotions ghost across her face like fleeting sjóvættir chasing a half-forgotten memory, striking and ephemeral at once. Randvi’s eyes open once more and she draws back from the kiss enough to plant a teasing finger Eivor’s sternum.

“Touch me, my love,” she says, hoarsely, her voice trilling with desire. “Properly.”

“As you wish,” Eivor murmurs, pupils blowing wide, and mouth twitching into a beaming smile at the plea. With careful adoration, she traces her way down Randvi’s body, admiring her with lips and tongue, an act of worship as patient and heartfelt as any she offers up to the gods. Randvi’s fingers tangle in her hair, her body tenses and relaxes as Eivor finds each place that makes Randvi hiss with a sharp spike of pleasure or moan quietly with a gentler arousal. Her skin, softened by the water, is silky smooth and pleasantly scented beneath Eivor’s questing lips, her fingertips gliding unchecked across Randvi’s beautifully ample hips to rest against the tops of her thighs, Eivor’s thumbs stroking delicately against her center.

Randvi throws her head back, and for a moment, Eivor savors the view of her lover’s body, glistening and beaded with water droplets, the sharp lines cast by the tendons in her neck, the wanton curve of her throat, the red tendrils of hair that curl down across her shoulders and breasts. She is magnificent and beautiful and so utterly desirable that Eivor swallows against an agonizing lump in her throat. Even now, after many moons, her love for Randvi can still hit her unexpectedly like this, catch her oblivious with its intensity, a sudden rush of feeling that leaves her both strong and weak.

But Randvi’s needs demand her attention, breaking her out of her introspection as she brushes more fully against Randvi’s outer lips, teasing them aside; one, two, clenching delightfully against her. Sometimes making love with Randvi feels like falling into a pit so deep she will never be able to escape even if she wanted to, drowning in sensations she had never known she could experience, and _oh_ , how it would have driven her mad if she had known, how it would have made her long years of sticking to her _honor_ all but impossible. Other times it’s like flying among birds, a soaring joy that fills every part of her body, a lightness of spirit. Tonight, she flies and she never wants to come back down, wants to stay in this moment, to stay with Randvi, safe and warm and loved.

She’s hot and wet and sweet and _Randvi_ , and Eivor is lost, lost in the searing heat of her, the delicate scent of honey that surrounds her like the whale-road’s waves, crashing and receding. Randvi cries out as she twists her fingers, shifting restlessly as if she wants to escape from Eivor’s careful onslaught, but she holds her in place with a strong hand against her hip, carefully so as not to bruise. Randvi’s breathing comes in fast pants and gasps, interspersed with breathless curses that Eivor can barely make out, but from the way Randvi’s fingers are digging into her back and her chest heaves, she suspects are either complimenting her skills or encouraging her for more. Either way, Eivor is content to oblige, pushing in quickly, then with longer, slower, firmer strokes. When she’s near her, inside of her, completing her, nothing else exists. She has always found it more arousing to give as to receive and the increasing tension in her own body, the rising heat and tautness, like a knot of pleasure rather than plain, drives her on, increasing her pace until Randvi is writhing desperately, poised on the edge of release.

But no moment lasts forever, the pleasure peaks and Randvi releases a long, shuddering cry and melts against her, the quakes and tremors of her orgasms gripping Eivor’s fingers where she still strokes her gently. Still made clumsy by the aftershocks of her release, Randvi collapses against her. Even then, Eivor doesn’t relent, skilled hand coaxing more from her, never letting her down from that wave until another one comes along to overtake her. Eivor can hear her delighted laughter and the faint echoes of her own cries, and then finally, the shimmers begin to fade and she is left weak and gasping with the burning torches bringing fire to the glorious tangle of Randvi’s hair as she leans over her.

After catching their breath, Randvi looks into Eivor’s eyes with more love and adoration Eivor has ever seen and the past year comes crashing down on her. She doesn’t even try to stop her mind from falling into a spiral of scattered memories, each of them like another dagger to her heart. Suddenly, her stomach is all wobbly, anxious and worried and just dreading what’s to come after the sun rises. Gods, if they were caught, they could be exiled, or even executed. But the worst part of it all is she would do it all over again, for Randvi, for their begged and borrowed moments, without a shadow of a doubt in her mind.

“Will you still be mine—” Eivor starts to asks past the ache in her chest.

Randvi smiles, not letting her finish the question. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On today's episode of "Learn About Norse Culture while Reading Fanfiction:"
> 
>  _Njörðr_ \- Njörðr is a god among the Vanir. Njörðr, father of the deities Freyr and Freyja by his unnamed sister, was in an ill-fated marriage with the goddess Skaði, lives in Nóatún and is associated with the sea, seafaring, wind, fishing, wealth, and crop fertility.  
>  _Hjartað mitt_ \- 'My heart.'  
>  _Draugr_ \- The draugr is an undead creature from Norse mythology. They are reanimated corpses - unlike ghosts, they have a corporeal body with similar, physical abilities as possessed in life.  
>  _Fólkvangr_ \- Fólkvangr is a meadow or field ruled over by the goddess Freyja where half of those that die in combat go upon death, whilst the other half go to the god Odin in Valhalla.  
>  _Hvergelmir_ \- A spring located in Niflheim, one of the three major springs at the primary roots of the cosmic tree Yggdrasil.  
>  _Rán_ \- In Norse mythology, Rán is a goddess and a personification of the sea.  
>  _Sjóvættir_ \- The vættir are spirits in Norse mythology. Sjóvættir refers to sea spirits.
> 
> P.S. The location itself is the Temple of Pluto in Lincolnscire.
> 
> P.P.S. Do I care how Eivor kept track of the days? No. Do I care how Eivor managed to fill an entire pool with water that stayed warm for a whole day? No. It's poetic license.


	13. Astral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _My mother… she used to call me her moon,_ ” she starts softly. Randvi smiles at her, and Eivor knows that she won’t press her if she doesn’t want to say more, that she’ll give her space if she needs it. “ _She said that the moon and the stars were in love, and the stars would only shine for her. As if the sole purpose of their existence was to use their light to guide the moon back to them. Back home._ ” Eivor’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest, and she sighs, long and low in her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _astral - of or relating to the stars._

> _Sá hón þar vaða_
> 
> _þunga strauma  
> _ _menn meinsvara  
> _ _ok morðvarga  
> _ _ok þannz annars glepr  
> _ _eyrarúno.  
> _ _Þar saug Níðhǫggr  
> _ _nái framgengna,  
> _ _sleit vargr vera.  
> _ _Vitoð ér enn,  
> _ _eða hvat?_

Eivor can’t sleep.

It isn’t something new, but it’s getting increasingly frustrating to close her eyes every night and stare at the inside of her eyelids. Every time she thinks she’s ready to fall asleep, her mind starts running in circles again; the wars behind her, the wars that await her and, most pressingly, the war her brother seems to be waging against anyone who so much as looks at him the wrong way. Yes, he has always been hot-headed, but at least his heart was in the right place. Sure, he could be oblivious from time to time, but he would never intentionally hurt those closest to him. Now? He is a changed man. One that Eivor doesn’t recognize. One that she doesn’t _want_ to recognize.

So, more often than not, Eivor eventually gives up and goes to wander aimlessly around the woods to clear her head of the doubts and worries that have been plaguing her since Sigurd’s return. Tonight hasn’t been any worse than other days, but she still spent the entire evening feeling an intense need to leave the longhouse. The urge growing stronger with each resonant snore echoing from the jarl’s chambers, reminding Eivor that Sigurd—the bitter, angry shell of Sigurd—is back where he should be; lying next to _his_ _wife_.

Eivor sits up with a heavy sigh. She rubs tiredness out of her eyes, her legs dangling off the bed.

 _A wife who he doesn’t deserve_ , she thinks with a bitter, ironic twist in her stomach. And it’s not just because of how he acted in the past or how he’s acting now, or the fact that he seems to be all turned up inside, anger and self-importance and ambition spinning a web in his mind. It’s also because he can’t give her what she wants. Never could. Randvi deserves golden daisies and starry nights in a jar, she deserves the best and Eivor hopes she knows it. But perhaps she’s convinced herself that the best she was going to get were offhand compliments and half-hearted kisses on her cheek, and gods, isn’t that just tragic? She deserves someone who treats her right, someone she can talk to, _really_ talk to, because Eivor doesn’t believe for a second that Sigurd ever really heard her. She deserves to be listened to, taken care of, supported, but also challenged, pushed to her better self. She deserves better, even if that better isn’t necessarily Eivor (and maybe she isn’t; she can’t be around as much as she wants to and nobody taught her how to catch stars with her hands, she is hard-headed by nature and can be relentless). Randvi deserves better than Sigurd, and better than Eivor herself… so, she fixes her eyes on the ground, clicks her tongue and swallows poison.

She waits until the settlement falls asleep, making sure that the few raiders and villagers who were still hanging around are all safely tucked away in their own personal dream-land and won’t notice her slipping out of the side-door and into the forest.

After she crosses the bridge behind Holger’s hut, Ravensthorpe starts to blur into the night, only a handful pinpricks of light showing through the trees. As she gets farther and farther away, it almost feels like a weight is being lifted off her heart and she can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes her lips. The sky is dusted by stars of all sizes, gently glowing against the pitch-dark backdrop of the cosmos, the moon hanging bright and alone above her; solitary and devastating, desolate in its beauty. The wind is subtle, but chilly, causing Eivor’s skin to prickle under her woolen tunic as she takes in the wispy sound it creates, flowing through the surrounding foliage. Mixed with the view above, it’s almost ethereal, and she quickly begins to lose herself in it. She wades deeper into the woods, keeping her gaze on the skies above, vast like Ginnungagap, and she chews on every detail that comes and goes through her mind.

 _And least the stars are still there, unchanged_ , Eivor muses. She’s found a new place to watch them from—the outcropping that hangs over the waterfall near Valka’s hut. Below the white noise of the cascading water, though, the silence that settles around her is quickly turning thick and uncomfortable, and Eivor feels like she can’t quite breathe. The forest is eerily quiet as she spreads her cloak on the ground and tries to make herself comfortable on the hard rock. The cicadas become silent and the usual rustle of the nocturnal animals dwindle until she is left with nothing but the complete absence of sound to accompany her.

She looks up. The majority of stars lie within what must be the wagon-road, stretching above and beyond the canopy of the surrounding forest and the hill-filled terrain that stretches beyond Ravensthorpe. In that moment, Eivor thinks it’s absurd that Midgard – the entirety of their realm – is so miniscule in comparison to such a thing. The enormity of it is unimaginable. Mortal men can’t even reasonably process just how large something like that is. It’s terrifying, magnificent, and melancholic all at once. She finds herself furrowing her brows at the thought.

She thinks of her parents; how her mother used to take her down to the docks in Heillboer on clear nights, telling her stories about how the stars in the night sky came to be. Eivor has heard so many stories about the stars, she knows the name of almost every constellation and the saga behind them. She hums in contemplation, and then the world lapses into a comfortable sort of quietness that she can no longer describe as empty or wearisome.

Did her mother and father cross the wagon-road all those winters ago? Did they drag Sigurd out of the corpse wagon when they found him? Will she soon be up there? Traveling on Óðins vagn and crossing the hellweg to the afterlife, the ruler of the wagon-road ushering her on? Now, laying back and looking up at the four stars that form the wagon and the three stars that make up its tongue, Eivor feels small and lost, vividly aware of how mortal she is. She feels insignificant, just as insignificant as she had felt the night when Kjotve and his men tossed her into a life she didn’t belong to—

The rustling of bushes snaps Eivor out of her reverie. The noise is coming from a few feet away, wind through tiny branches and Eivor jumps to her feet. Grabbing the handle of her axe, she shifts her weight to one foot, ready to attack as she glances through the wide tree trunks and dense thicket. Their broad leaves are swaying in the wind, too, and she realizes, watching them, that she can no longer feel the breeze.

“Eivor?” says a voice to her right, soft, and she whirls around.

Eivor relaxes, loosening the hold on her axe as she recognizes the voice, the sound of it bringing a small smile to her face. A moment later, Randvi steps out of the shadows, moonlight trickling around her like liquid stardust. She’s wearing a pair of old boots and her nightdress, nothing else, but there’s a large fur blanket wrapped around her body that covers her down to her knees.

A hand on her shoulder brings Eivor back to reality. In the darkness, Randvi’s eyes still burn with a fire that threatens to set Midgard alight. It happened often; Eivor would have to take a second to catch her breath whenever Randvi’s eyes caught her off guard. Like looking over the cliff’s edge and suddenly seeing the fireflies dancing above the small pond, their light reflecting on the smooth surface; she needs a moment to absorb the beauty, the rhythm, the warmth, before regaining her composure.

“Can’t sleep?” Randvi asks quietly.

Eivor shakes her head, the hand resting on her shoulder snakes up to her cheek, providing warm comfort that she can’t help but lean into. “How did you find me?”

“Your _wolf_ would not let me sleep.” Randvi says with an amused grin and simply nods her head towards Mouse, the white fur of the beast glistening in the dark as she disappears between the shrubbery, her purpose accomplished. “She kept snickering until I got up and followed. I was afraid she was going to wake Sigurd.”

Eivor presses her lips into a thin line, swallowing dryly. For a brief moment, she wonders what it was like when hearing her brother’s name didn’t make her insides churn with guilt and – though she loathes to admit it – irritation. She shakes the thought off with an inaudible mumble, and moves to sit back down, beckoning Randvi to settle next to her. Instinctively, she drapes her arm around her lover and smiles, cheeks momentarily dimpling as she pulls her close to her side. Randvi throws her blanket over the both of them and rests her head on Eivor’s, who, in turn, presses a tender kiss into her hair, then lets her hands fall to Randvi’s waist.

“What’s on your mind, my love?” Randvi asks, making Eivor notice the soft depths of blue studying her.

She doesn’t want to burden Randvi with her heavy thoughts and uncertainties. Wordlessly, Eivor turns her eyes back to the sky, and sees Randvi do the same from the corner of her sight, not pushing her in any way, and Eivor is thankful for it.

They sit in silence for a moment, until Eivor finds herself unable to bear the quiet any longer. “When I was little, my mother used to tell me stories of the stars,” she begins, raising her free hand to outline a constellation.

“What kind of stories?” Randvi shifts, resting her head on her palm with her elbow supporting her, giving Eivor her full attention. Her gaze follows Eivor’s fingers as she points at Þjazi’s Eyes, two stars of equal brightness.

“Þjazi tricked Loki into giving him Iðunn and her golden apples, depriving the gods of their strength and youth. But his victory was short lived. Having discovered the mischief, the gods have sent Loki to Jötunheimr to rescue her, which he did. Þjazi died while chasing the trickster. His daughter, Skaði, sought revenge and the gods, wanting to avoid more bloodshed, paid her off,” she recounts in her avid storytelling voice. “She was given the hand of Njord in marriage, and as further reparation, Thor took Þjazi’s eyes and said, ‘ _I threw up the eyes of Olvaldi's son into the bright heavens. They are the greatest sign of my deeds, those which all men can see afterwards_.’”

She meets Randvi’s gaze, half expecting detachment or indifference in her eyes—she must’ve heard these stories too, every Norse child has—but she’s only met with genuine interest.

Her heart flutters and her eyes catch Randvi’s lips before she pulls her gaze away back up to her eyes. Eivor is absolutely captivated. Randvi is bathed in starlight that seems to come from within her skin, her lips slightly separated. She takes in the beauty of her pearlescent skin and how her hair, tousled from sleep, glistens. How her smile, so purely radiant, seems to always seep right through the wall she had erected around her heart long ago. Eivor returns the smile with a faint, lopsided smirk of her own and moves them both, so that they’re lying on their backs. She slides one arm under Randvi’s head, the other resting across her own waist.

“That’s Friggjarrokkr.” She points out the stars one by one, drawing invisible lines between them. She’s not sure if Randvi’s following until she hears a breath of ‘ _Oh_.’ Eivor looks at her then, but Randvi’s gaze is still upturned. Her eyes linger for a moment before she looks up at the three bright stars that make up the constellation. “Frigga’s spinning wheel rotates like the stars in the night sky, dispensing our destinies onto us. The queen of the Aesir knows all fates, but keeps them in confidence. She observes all that happens in the Nine Realms while spinning her golden thread and weaving colored clouds.”

“If she would tell you, would you want to know?” Randvi asks with a curious glint in her eyes. “Your fate?

Eivor hesitates for a moment, and then shrugs. “No. Would you?”

Randvi hums. “No, I don’t think so.” She tilts her head up, noses against Eivor’s throat and presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw.

Randvi shifts then. Eivor feels her stare touch her, but keeps her own on the stars as she continues. “That one is Níðhöggr.” Eivor takes Randvi’s index finger in her own hand, and traces it along the nineteen stars that form the serpent’s body and tail. There’s a hard knit to Eivor’s brow; a sinking feeling keeping her from telling the story. _Níðhöggr_ , she repeats to herself in her mind, _dwelling beneath Yggdrasil, presiding over Náströnd, will you greet me when I leave this realm? Will you feast on my corpse?_ She is, after all, an oath-breaker, an adulterer; the Shore of Corpses is where people like her belong, not Valhalla.

Randvi makes a noncommittal sound, as if reading her thoughts, and Eivor has to agree: this saga doesn’t fit this night. “I never liked that one,” Eivor hears herself say. A deep breath of cool late-summer air chases the warmth she feels when Randvi squeezes her hand, the sensations mixing pleasantly inside her. “Look, there… Ratatoskr.”

And she keeps going, naming the stars and the constellations one after the other— Veðrfölnir, Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr and Duraþrór—until they run out. Eivor falls silent, then. Wordless throughout the storytelling, Randvi is silent, too. Another moment passes quietly, and another after that and Eivor glances over to see if maybe Randvi’s dozed off, but she’s looking up fixedly at the skies. Looking too long already, waiting for words that won’t come, Eivor turns her gaze to her own breath as it drifts and dissipates into the night.

“Do you know what that one reminds me of?” There is no telltale inhale or any other warning that Randvi is going to speak; the sound of her sudden words sends a shiver through Eivor that has nothing to do with being cold. Randvi’s hand finds Eivor’s own as she pillows her face on her shoulders and points northward.

Eivor shakes her head.

“Longships… I used to look out at the fjords when there would be longships at sea and at night, their lights looked like flickering stars.” Randvi holds her free hand up, as if trying to define which part of the sky is the sea, and which part are the ships.

Eivor studies the celestial vista, a smile curving along her lips. “I think there is a whole fleet up there. An armada, even.”

“Could you imagine?” Randvi can’t even hide the glee in her voice, “Sailing on a sea of stars?”

Eivor blinks at her. She doesn’t have to imagine. Every time she looks into Randvi’s eyes she gets lost in the universe she can see in them; the expansive space that makes up Randvi. She remembers the first time she met her, how she was instantly drawn to the depth behind her eyes, the sea-green orbs revealing constellations Eivor had never imagined before. Whenever their eyes met Eivor would feel it down to her bones, like a zap of lightning going through her, the stars in Randvi’s eyes twinkling like no other. Eivor would do – still does – anything to get Randvi to look at her.

“What?” Randvi asks with a small chuckle.

Eivor turns and raises a hand to caress her lover’s cheek, and time seems to halt to a crawl as slowly, she presses her lips to Randvi’s. Gooseflesh breaks out over her skin and it’s as though with the touch of her lips, everything falls away. It’s just the two of them in the dark, quiet taking over once more and Eivor is only able to focus on one thing: the way Randvi feels soft against her mouth, the love that she seems to radiate. Randvi’s lips are warm, even if the fingers she slips up onto Eivor’s neck aren’t. The kiss is tender - their lips barely parting in a gentle rhythm - a flicker in time that is strangely, utterly perfect and Eivor feels it through every nerve in her body. They kiss for long moments, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world—which, Eivor realizes, they do not, but she can’t bring herself to care.

When they finally pull back, neither of them says anything and they’re left staring at each other. Eivor is stuck in a faint dreamlike state, taking in everything about Randvi and becoming aware of the persistent thudding of her heart. The deep breath she takes comes easier this time. Eivor smiles, content and a little bashful.

Randvi tilts her head with a hint of a smirk, and Eivor grins; their faces still inches away from each other, their gazes unbroken. Before Eivor can even think of the words to say, Randvi draws her in again. It’s faster this time, emboldened by passion as their mouths collide. Eivor grabs her and pulls her on top with greedy hands, clinging to her like she’s her last grasp on this realm. Randvi leans down and they kiss again. It feels right. It is what they are supposed to do. Their noses bump together and they laugh into the kiss as their lips brush against each other’s. Her laugh. It’s something Eivor wants to save for a gloomy day, a sound that seems to fix everything that is wrong in all the Nine Realms. She lets herself be lost in it; in the tenderness, in the taste of her breath, in everything that feels so right.

They settle back down, keenly aware of the few short hours of darkness they have left. Randvi burrows into Eivor’s side, head on her breast and limbs tangled around her body, covering as much of her as she possibly can. Eivor will never tire of being loved by her. Her body tethers Eivor to now, not letting her get too lost in her head. Eivor’s finger comb lazily through her red curls and she sighs, relaxed and replete. Randvi is almost asleep – Eivor can tell by her deep, even breaths.

“I have always loved that one, too,” Randvi says after a minute or two, her words followed by a wistful sigh.

“Which?” Eivor asks and tries to follow Randvi’s gaze, but she can’t quite pinpoint which cluster she means. Randvi points it out then, but it doesn’t look like any constellation Eivor has ever seen. Definitely not one from any of the stories her mother told her.

“I don’t see it.”

“No, follow my finger.” Randvi starts to trace it and if Eivor squints just so, she can almost see it too.

It takes a moment, but as Eivor maps out the location of the surrounding stars, she’s able to figure out a small formation to the south, close to the horizon. “A… reindeer?”

Randvi nods. Eivor hums in response, traces the group of stars with her eyes and continues to stare into the night for another minute or so, until a faint light streaks through the eastern sky and disappears again. It causes her to become alert as she searches intently for more.

“Did you see that? A spark of Muspelheim!” Eivor exclaims, still staring at the blazing white stain it left on the dark blanket above their heads. She pushes herself up on her elbows, as if she could see it better from that position. “I have not seen one since we left Norway.”

Randvi chuckles, clearly entertained by Eivor’s childlike joy. “They are actually quite common; they are just difficult to spot because you either have to be looking at a direct spot or have excellent peripheral vision.”

Eivor makes a noise between understanding and amusement. She’d always heard they were a rare sign of good luck. _You have to make a wish when you see one_ , her mother had told her when she first spotted one. She must have been only six or seven winters along, but she still remembers her mother’s voice and how she’d sounded in that moment. She still remembers how her hair looked when she would put her to sleep after a long night of stargazing, and kiss her forehead. She still remembers the way she’d sway her, slowly, carefully, as if she was something precious that would break under too much pressure.

She lies back, the joy gone from her face and replaced with profound contemplation.

 _My dear child_ , her mother would say, quietly. She’d hold her and kiss her cheeks, one after the other. _Let me tell you a story._ And then she’d lift Eivor on her lap, her fingers intertwined with hers, and she’d tell her thrilling tales. Stories about gods and jarls and warriors, about trolls and dwarves, and jötnar and valkyries. She’d tell her about the Huldufólk dwelling in mounds, in her hushed, hoarse voice. _Now you tell me a story, my moon_ , she’d say then, and Eivor would repeat her stories back to her, giggling and smiling, and curling into her.

Eivor furrows her brows at the memory and blinks away a tear, rubbing a gentle hand against Randvi’ arm if only to comfort herself.

“My mother… she used to call me her moon,” she starts softly. Randvi smiles at her, and Eivor knows that she won’t press her if she doesn’t want to say more, that she’ll give her space if she needs it. “She said that the stars and the moon were in love, and the stars would only shine for her. As if the sole purpose of their existence was to use their light to guide the moon back to them. Back home.” Eivor’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest, and she sighs, long and low in her throat.

“Eivor…” her name is barely a whisper.

Eivor feels her throat close up against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her at the sound as she presses herself closer to Randvi. She looks up at the stars again, each one shining with its own light, shining all the brighter for those invisible connections between them.

“She would have liked you, I think,” Eivor says after a pause. “I wish you could have met her. And my father. I think you would have liked them, too.” She swallows the ache in her chest.

“Of that, I am sure.”

Silence again, this time hollow and empty. Maybe it’s the night, maybe it’s the way Randvi is looking at her, but Eivor’s heartbeat quickens, aware of how close she is to everything she’s ever wanted and yet unable to get it, to have it.

 _I love you,_ Eivor wants to tell her. _I don’t care that this is wrong, or that I cannot breathe when you look at me. I don’t care if I will go to Nárströnd. I love you._ “You are my guiding star, Randvi. My leiðarstjarna,” she says instead, because it’s also true. And easier to say.

“You think of me as the guiding star?”

“Well… Not _the_ guiding star. _My_ guiding star.” Randvi’s brow raises slightly as vulnerability settles on her face. Eivor continues; her hands cupping Randvi’s face, “Surely, you must know that the leiðarstjarna does not move in the night sky. It is a fixed point that people have used to find their way home since the beginning of time.” She’s drawing circles into Randvi’s cheek as she speaks, “You always guide me home, Randvi. You are home.”

Randvi is looking at her. Water beginning to well in her eyes, captured and held back by her bottom lashes. Eivor presses their foreheads together, her eyes conveying an eternity of promises and devotion. Their breathing is in sync as they grip onto one another.

“And you are my sun, blíðr, my true day-star,” Randvi whispers, grabbing a fistful of Eivor’s tunic and tugging her close, pressing her gentle lips against Eivor’s. And Eivor can’t believe she wasted so many years of her life, kissing other people, trying not to want this. Trying not to want Randvi, while Randvi pretended not to want her back.

* * *

Sýnin shrieks somewhere. The fuzzy edges of awareness tell Eivor that the village is starting to wake, the birds are starting to sing, and in spite of the chill, dawn is approaching. A slow, airy fog trickles down through the canopy and settles over the grass and the creek that feeds that waterfall. Randvi is warm next to her, arm and leg thrown over her in a possessive clutch that sends a thrumming sense of belonging through Eivor’s whole being. They should’ve put clothes on again after making love under stars last night, considering the low night temperatures, but it seemed unimportant in the afterglow, and given that they were sharing a fur blanket, Eivor can’t remember ever feeling terribly cold during the night.

Above them, the birds are becoming more insistent. Eivor untangles herself from her lover’s embrace and sits up. She wants to see it; the moon retreating beyond the hills to the west, the world painted in ocher and muted pink, just them on the edge of it all, so much smaller than everything that surrounds them.

Besides her, Randvi huffs and shifts, curling more tightly into Eivor’s hip, blindly groping at flesh while she hides her face from the new day that peeks out over the edge of the horizon.

Eivor doesn’t want to wake her. She doesn’t want to leave either, but it’s getting dangerously bright. With a sigh, she traces a finger down Randvi’s cheek, “Wake up, _ástin mín_.” She watches a smile slowly blossom on her lover’s face as she snuggles closer to Eivor’s warmth.

When Randvi doesn’t move, Eivor leans down and kisses her hard, tongue sneaking into her mouth for a quick taste before saying, “You should get back before—before he realizes you have been gone too long.” Another kiss. “If he hasn’t already.”

Randvi’s smile falls away into a hard line. Eivor wants to say something to try and amend the tense air. But she’s silent, all words dying in her now tight throat. Randvi is silent, too, as she stands and starts to collect her discarded clothes. Through bleary eyes, Eivor watches as she dresses. She can’t help but notice her soft curves swaying as she raises her shift above her head to slip it back over herself. But now is not the time for that.

Randvi bends down to give her a kiss goodbye, cutting off anything she might be about to say.

“We will get through this,” she tells Eivor before she turns to leave, her voice serious and solemn. “You and me, us.”

And Eivor wishes, with all of her heart, that the promise will come true.

> _She saw there wading  
> _ _onerous streams  
> _ _men perjured  
> _ _and wolfish murderers  
> _ _and the one who seduces  
> _ _another’s close-trusted wife.  
> _ _There Malice Striker sucked_  
>  _corpses of the dead,  
> _ _the wolf tore men._  
>  _Do you still seek to know? And what?_

– Völuspá 38-39, Dronke's translation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On today's episode of "Learn About Norse Culture while Reading Fanfiction:"
> 
>  _Ginnungagap_ \- In Norse mythology, Ginnungagap ("gaping abyss", "yawning void") is the primordial void, mentioned in the Gylfaginning, the Eddaic text recording Norse cosmogony.  
>  _Wagon-road / Hellweg_ \- The Milky Way.  
>  _Óðins vagn_ \- Odin's wagon, meaning the Great Bear (Big Dipper) constellation.  
>  _Þjazi’s Eyes_ \- Thiassi's Eyes constellation. Consists of two Gemini stars, Castor and Pollux.  
>  _Frigga_ \- Frigg or Frigga was said to be "foremost among the goddesses," the wife of Odin, queen of the Aesir, and Goddess of the Sky - the air and the clouds. One of the Ásynjur, she is a goddess of fertility, love, household management, marriage, motherhood, and domestic arts.  
>  _Friggjarrokkr_ \- Frigga's Distaff constellation. Today it's Orion's Belt.  
>  _Níðhöggr_ \- A dragon/serpent who gnaws at a root of the world tree, Yggdrasil.  
>  _Náströnd_ \- A place in Hel where Níðhöggr lives and chews on corpses. It is the afterlife for those guilty of murder, adultery, and oath-breaking (which the Norsemen considered the worst possible crimes).  
>  _Spark of Muspelheim_ \- A shooting star.  
>  _Huldufólk_ \- Hidden people. Elves in Icelandic and Faroese folklore. They are supernatural beings that live in nature. They look and behave similarly to humans, but live in a parallel world.  
>  _Leiðarstjarna / guiding star_ \- Polaris, the North Star.  
>  _Blíðr_ \- A word of endearment denoting the outward expression of mildness in the eyes, look, voice. EIVOR IS SOFT.  
>  _Ástin mín_ \- 'my dear', 'my darling' 
> 
> Please don't go outside and look if all of the constellations can be seen from one spot. We're going to ignore geographical and astrological accuracy for the sake of fluff.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me here on [Tumblr](https://valhalla-s.tumblr.com/). Comments and kudos are always appreciated :)


End file.
